


A Rumor in Westeros

by Scribomaniac



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anastasia AU, And He Knows It, Animal Abuse Mention, Animal Death, Blood, Everyone knows it, F/M, Gen, Gendrya - Freeform, Gore, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Slow Burn, arya is the last of the starks, bed sharing, blood mention, cersei is rasputin, gendry and davos bro it up, he'll give her a hah! and a hiyah! and then he'll kick her, jaime is bartok, sir, slight gore, sorry - Freeform, sorry bout that, tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-30 17:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13956810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribomaniac/pseuds/Scribomaniac
Summary: Arya Stark went missing from King's Landing almost ten years ago.  Most thought her dead at the hands of the late King Joffrey, but rumors still swirled in the air like little flakes of snow.  Prince Jon Targaryen, formerly Snow, rules in Mereen alongside his aunt, Queen Daenerys.  Although his true heritage has been revealed, he cannot let the past lie and is offering a reward to anyone who can bring his little sister home.





	1. One Step, One Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Have you heard there's a rumor in Westeros?  
> Have you heard, what they're saying on the streets?  
> Although King Robb did not survive, one sibling may be still alive  
> The princess Arya Stark  
> But please do not repeat
> 
> It's a rumor, a legend, a mystery  
> Something whispered in an alleyway or through a crack  
> It's a rumor that's part of our history  
> They say her royal cousin, Jon, will pay a royal sum  
> To someone who can bring the princess back!
> 
> A copper for this weaving, it's Lady Stark's, I swear  
> Lord Baelish's twin daggers, friends, buy the pair  
> I found this in the palace, initialed with an 'A'  
> It could be Arya Stark's, now what will someone pay?
> 
> It's a rumor, a legend, a mystery  
> It's the princess, Arya Stark, who will help us fly!  
> You and I friend, will go down in history!  
> We'll find a girl to play the part and teach her what to say  
> Dress her up and take her to Mereen  
> Imagine the reward her dear old brother will surely pay  
> Who else could pull it off but you and me?  
> We'll be rich (we'll be rich), we'll be out (we'll be out)  
> And Westeros will have some more to talk about
> 
> Have you heard there's a rumor in Westeros?  
> Have you heard, my friends, what do you suppose?  
> A fascinating mystery (the biggest con in history)  
> The princess Arya Stark, alive or dead  
> Who knows?

_ Gendry | Winterfell _

Deep within a pathetic excuse for a forge, with drafty walls, little lighting besides the struggling embers of a fire, and the frozen earth beneath him acting as the floor, a smith tried to work. Hammer met anvil again and again, a thousand times over, as it warped a slab of metal into a semblance of shape.

Winter was coming, it was almost here, and although the forge was probably the warmest place in all of Winterfell, even it couldn't ward off the chill. Another gust of wind pierced the forge’s crumbling walls with a sharpness the smith had never been able to give his blades, and made the fire, which had barely just recovered from the last gale, flicker and dim.

Cursing, the smith grabbed a pair of tongs and threw some more coal onto the fire and then snatched up a pair of bellows to breath in some life. The fire crackled and hissed, growing taller and brighter and stronger. At least until the next roar of wind came through.

He’d just picked up his hammer and shifted the piece of metal on the anvil, figuring out where he should strike it next, when the wooden door to the forge burst open, revealing a man on the other side. “Gendry,” he greeted, his tone short and clipped from the cold. His ears, unprotected by his short hair and lack of hat, burned a red brighter than the fire, and his salt and pepper beard was tangled in a web of miniature icicles.

“Davos,” Gendry nodded, then began to shiver from the chill. “Close the bloody door, yeah? It's colder than a Wildling's corpse out there.”

Davos blinked, then shook himself out of his thoughts. The movement dislodged some icicles free of his beard, sending them flying down to the ground. Hastily, he closed the door. “What's that you're working on? A piece of armor?” He asked, his tone almost hopeful.

Gendry scoffed, looking at the warped piece of metal on his anvil. “Armor? From this reused piece of shit?” He shook his head, “No metal was meant to be reused and reshaped this many times. If it were anywhere else it'd be in the rubbish.” He sighed, wondering if it wouldn't end up there regardless of his efforts, “I'm trying to shape it into a pot,” he admitted. “I just need it to bend . . . a bit more.”

Looking up at Davos, he asked, “How was town? You sell anything?”

For the past few years, ever since Davos had found Gendry in Flea Bottom and brought him up North to escape the Queen for the second time in his life, the two had been scraping by by selling products from Gendry's forge. Gendry would make the products--reforged cups, pots, kettles, the occasional horseshoe--and Davos would do his best to sell them. Easier said than done, though, when no one had any money.

“Oh, aye, I got a few copper pennies here or there. I was able to get rid of a pair of horseshoes, actually. Got a nice silver stag for them.”

That was impressive. Davos must've come across a Knight or maybe a Lord from a lesser house. Silver was hard to come by, especially with the taxes being as high as they were. The reminder made the smith wince.

“We're not going to make it through Winter are we?” Gendry sighed, his blue eyes trained onto his work. Gripping and regripping his hammer nervously, he glanced up at Davos, then back down again. “Not going on like this we're not.”

“Aye,” Davos nodded solemnly, his hands clasped together in front of him. “And half the North will be joining us in our graves by the sight of it.” Eyes darting left and right, searching for any eavesdroppers or spies--though the thought of anyone risking their balls to frostbite just to spy on them made Gendry snort--Davos stepped closer. “Right, well that's what I came to talk to you about. Our survival.”

His voice was quiet and his words crisp as he spoke quickly and with importance, “I had an idea. Now,” he said sternly, his brows furrowing and almost becoming one. “I know you won't like it, but I've had it, so just give me a moment, all right?”

Frowning, Gendry nodded. Feeling as if this conversation was about to take a turn, he placed his hammer on the ground and crossed his arms over his chest. Now that he stopped moving, stopped his work, the cold was beginning to seep into his skin. He grimaced, shifted in an attempt to ward the chill away, and hoped Davos would be quick.

“I've heard a rumour,” he said, almost awkwardly as he wrung his hands. “In town. A rumor about the Princess Arya. Now, no, no,” he held up a hand, stopping Gendry’s objections before they could start. Sighing, Gendry closed his mouth, signalling for the older man to continue.

“We both have.” He said, his accent becoming thicker with ever word. Usually Davos’ voice  reminded Gendry of the sea, of the sailors he'd known growing up in Flea Bottom. Usually the sound of it helped put the younger man at ease. This time, though, it just added to his dread.  “Heard, I mean, that she survived.”

Gendry's face darkened. Yes, he knew the rumor well. Mayhaps better than anyone. That although the Starks did not survive, one of the siblings may still be alive. Some idiot, probably a fancy poet, had gotten it into their thick skull that since the details of Arya’s disappearance were unclear, she must still be alive somewhere.

Once, not too long ago, Gendry had believed the rumors too. He'd justified it, even. He'd known more than most had, anyway. He knew that she survived King’s Landing. So, he thought, why couldn't she survive the Red Wedding?

It was a fool’s dream, though. He'd come to realize that, with time. None of the Starks survived.

Lord Stark had been the first to die, but little did anyone know at the time that he wouldn't be the last. Not long after him, just a few moons, the traitor Theon Greyjoy killed and burned the youngest boys, Bran and Rickon, and hung their bodies from the castle’s gate for all of Winterfell to see.

Next was King Robb, the savior of the North, the Young Wolf. Not even he could survive whatever curse had been placed on his family. He and his mother, the Lady Catelyn, had been brutally slain under the protection of guest right by House Frey. Their deaths had changed the country drastically. If a king couldn't feel safe in the home of their own Bannerman, what chance did the common folk have? After the Red Wedding, neighbor turned against neighbor, and the North was left defenseless.

Then the poor Lady Sansa, crushed on the rocks of Blackwater Bay. Some say the fall was an accident, some say that the late King Joffrey pushed her, and some say that, after hearing about the death of her brother and mother, she became broken hearted and jumped. The Stranger didn't care about the whys or hows, though, and neither did Gendry. Dead was dead, after all.

As for Arya, most thought she had perished at King’s Landing, not long after her Lord father, though how no one could say. All they knew was that she was in the Red Keep with her sister, Sansa, and assumed she came to the same tragic end as the rest of her family. But Gendry and a handful of people knew differently. Arya had made it out of the lion’s den, had been on her way to Castle Black to reunite with her bastard brother, Jon Snow, and had been so close to freedom. Then she met Gendry and everything turned to ruin.

Chest tightening at the thought of their meeting, Gendry had to physically shake off the guilt that had once again come so close to consuming him. Focusing back on Davos, he tried to hear what the man was saying.

“It's a lot of money, Gendry,” he was saying, “enough for both of us to live happily, if not modestly, for the rest of our days. I was thinking we'd do that somewhere a bit warmer, perhaps Lys, but--”

“Sorry, what?” Gendry interrupted, not following. “What money?”

Pursing his lips and breathing slowly out his nostrils, Davos glared at Gendry and began again, slower this time. “Prince Jon.  Arya's cousin. You remember him, yes?

Gendry did, though not many people would call them cousins. To many Northerners, Jon Snow was still Ned Stark’s bastard son. To the Southrons, he was just another usurper, vying for the throne. To Gendry though, he'd always be Arya's favorite brother.

“He’s in Mereen now, with his aunt, Queen Daenerys. He believes Arya's still alive, Gendry, and he's offering a reward to the person who can bring her back.” Davos’ brown eyes searched Gendry's, looking for any signs of anger, disbelief, maybe even grief. Gendry looked back, unsure of what emotion the older man would indeed find.

“So I thought,” Davos continued hesitantly, “that since the two of us are in an opportunistic position, that we might . . .”

“Might what?” Gendry shrugged, the action bordering on aggressive. Running a hand along his jaw, he grimaced. The small hairs there scratched at the skin of his hand even though he'd just shaved that morning, which wasn't good--he couldn't afford a beard right now--but could be dealt with later.

“Just find an Arya lookalike, teach her what to say?” His fingers twitched with the need to hit something, “Then what? Dress her up as a lady and take her to Mereen?”

“You knew her better than anyone,” Davos argued, “save for her family, and they're all gone.”

“And so is she!” Gendry bellowed, his temper flaring like his fire did earlier. His face had turned a blotchy red and the cold no longer seemed to touch him. Pacing back and forth in the small forge in an attempt to exercise away his rage, Gendry continued. “Arya's dead, Davos! And maybe Jon Snow doesn't know that yet, or hasn't accepted it yet, but she is, and he will.

“He was her favorite brother, he'll be able to spot a fake miles away, and I for one do not want to be caught in a lie by someone whose aunt can control dragons!”

“Gendry, lad, calm down,” Davos waited for Gendry's pacing to stop, for him to take in some deep breaths and cool his blood. “I know the idea doesn't sit well with you,” he took a step closer and placed both hands on the taller man's shoulders. “I don't much like it myself, but it's all we've got right now.”

Looking over his shoulder for a moment, once again keeping an eye out for any enemies, Davos sighed, “You're right, we won't make it through a Winter this far North, but we can't go south, either. I was Hand to a king that never sat on the throne, and you,” he stopped to take a breath, his dark eyes, “well, with every passing day you look more and more like the dead King Robert, especially with that beard you keep trying to keep off your face.”

He paused, then, “Someone's bound to notice, and since Winterfell is currently decorated with colors from House Bolton, well,” he grimaced, “let's just say I'd rather face a dragon than that bastard Ramsay.”

Gendry had to admit, he had a point. At least the dragon would be quick about it. Ramsay was known for dragging things out, making his victims suffer. The stories he'd heard had been enough to give him nightmares for days.

Shaking his head, Gendry took a different approach, “And how, exactly, would we get to Mereen?”

Taking a step back and crossing his arms over his chest, Davos raised a brow, “I've been able to smuggle some money away these past few years,” he chuckled. “Enough to get three people across the Narrow Sea to Mereen, and then stay a few nights at a simple inn.”

“And then what?” Gendry asked, his brows raising up to meet his hairline. “We walk up to the palace, or wherever it is royalty lives in Mereen and just, what? Ask to meet with their prince?” He shook his head, “Why would they even meet with us?”

“You forget, lad, that I knew Jon,” Davos said, his beard hiding his frown. “Back when he was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” He nodded his head confidently, “I can get us an audience.”

Eyes softening, the older man said softly, “We can't stay here anymore, Gendry. We need to start over. We need to take a chance.”

Gendry sighed, a slow acceptance rushing through his veins and loosening the tension in his neck and shoulders. Davos was right, he knew that, they couldn't stay in Westeros any longer. It was just asking for tragedy, and hadn't they both lived through enough of that?

“All right,” he nodded, rubbing a hand down his face. “All right. Well,” he said, trying not to think of how all this could go wrong. “Who else could pull it off but me and you?”

“You and me,” Davos corrected automatically, making Gendry duck his head and smile.

_ Cat | Braavos _

Cat felt the weight of her new purse hit against the meat of her thigh as she took step after step. Part of her was tempted to pat it, like patting herself on the back, but refrained. Such an action would do nothing but bring attention to it, and after having just won it, the young woman didn't wish to part with the coins in it so quickly. Ensuring that no one would challenge her to a duel and steal her prize, Cat pulled her long coat to cover her sword and new purse.

She'd won the purse off a young, green horned fool of a boy from Salty Town. He'd most likely had never been in a real duel in his entire life before today, and it hadn't even been a challenge for Cat to disarm him and win her prize. Kids like him were always visiting the city this time of year, looking for adventure and excitement, and they always went home a few pounds lighter than they came.

Running her thumb up the length of her sword's handle, she she wondered how best to spend her winnings. Perhaps she'd buy a pomegranate, or a Myrish orange, if she could find someone who sold them. Or perhaps she'd visit some of the girls at the Happy Port. She hadn't visited them in a while, maybe she'd buy some oysters for them all to share.

There was a lot of silver there, though, she thought as the purse bounced against the fabric covering her leg again. More than she'd seen in a long while. More than enough to . . .

She stopped and shook her head, she knew where that line of thought led. To the Bay, to a ship, to her home . . . In truth it led nowhere. Cat didn't even know where home was.

_ North, _ her thoughts stubbornly answered. Her home was in the North.  _ Westeros. _

She gritted her teeth,  _ and then what? _ She asked herself.  _ Then what would she do? _ The purse of silver wouldn't last forever, and she couldn't even remember the last time she'd been in her native country, or why she left. There might not be anyone to return to anymore, either.

Her grip on her sword tightened, her slim fingers turning bone white beneath her skin. Looking down at the sword--at the only link to her past--Cat’s chest swelled with an unnamed emotion. She'd had the sword for as long as she could remember, before that, in fact. It had been the only thing she could truly call her own after she'd left the House of Black and White.

The sword was small, meant for a child, really, but Cat’s hands were small, too, and the Braavosi preferred to use lighter blades in duels, ones that only needed to be held in one hand, so no one ever questioned her about it.

It had a name. Cat knew it had one, long ago. She wished she could remember it, she knew it was a good one, but its name continued to elude her, just as the rest of her past did.

Every now and again she'd remember something. Nothing tangible, just small flashes that were too obscure to gain anything from them--a warm hug, a hand ruffling her hair, the taste of lemon cake on her tongue--breezed in and out of her mind,  and made her ache for the life she once had.

The memories, her past, would return to her. Someday. Cat knew this to be true, knew it with every fiber of her being. It might be tomorrow, it might be a year from now, it might be more, but one day Cat would know the name of her sword, sure as she knew her own, and, more importantly, who had given it to her.

She wondered sometimes, especially at night, after having awoke from sleep, whether or not she had a family. She must have, at some point. But  _ no, _ she thought, family wasn't quite right.  _ Pack. She had a pack. _

_ The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives _ . The words surprised her, stopping her in her tracks. Where had they come from?Although the words felt foreign and unused, they also felt right, like they belonged to her.

Still, Cat had never thought about packs or wolves before. Braavos had no wolves, and the people here never spoke of them, so she wouldn't have heard the phrase from a stranger or a friend. In fact, no where on the Eastern continent were there wolves. But in Westeros . . .

Cat blinked and realized she'd been  standing in the same spot for far too long. Taking a look at her surroundings, her mouth dropped open as she realized where she was: Chequy Port. Her feet had led her almost all the way up to a ship without her noticing. Closing her mouth and shaking her head, Cat could take a hint.

It was time for her to take the first forward in finding out who she was, and the first step towards her future. Releasing a shaky breath, she squared her shoulders and walked up to the Harbormaster.

Swallowing down a spike of fear and pushing down on the rush of excitement buzzing in her hands, Cat voice was steeled with conviction as she announced, “I’m looking for a ship to Westeros.”


	2. Yearning to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That leads to the Crypts,” Gendry said dumbly.
> 
> “Aye,” Davos nodded, his frown deepening.
> 
> No one had been inside the Crypts since before Bran and Rickon were murdered. Everyone in the North knew better than to disturb the dead that resided there. Some said it was haunted, that whoever trespassed would be cursed by the ghosts of the fallen Stark children; the ones whose bodies never made it home.

_ Gendry | Winterfell _

 

Winterfell’s castle, once a symbol of House Stark’s power and control over the North, was now nothing more than a burned skeleton of its former self. After Theon and his Ironborn men attacked the castle and killed the two youngest Starks, King Robb sent the Boltons to reclaim it. 

Unbeknownst to him at the time, Roose Bolton had already turned traitor, pledging his allegiance to King Joffrey, and ordered his son, the Bastard of Bolton, Ramsay Snow, to burn the castle and kill the inhabitants.

After the King in the North’s death, King Joffrey named Roose Bolton Warden of the North, and at the time many had thought he'd move to Winterfell, as it was the North’s traditional seat of power, going back almost two thousand years. But the Lord Bolton had other ideas. Instead of moving himself into a burned out relic, he'd stated, he'd be moving the North's capital to the Dreadfort, his ancestral home.

That'd been years ago, now, and since then hardly anyone had stepped foot into Winterfell's castle. Unless, of course, they wanted to keep out of sight from prying eyes. After all, the Bolton's may not be in Winterfell, but their spies very much were.

Gendry and Davos sat in the middle of a long table, one that used to host the Lord’s family during feasts and festivities. The table beneath their hands was damp, and creaked when even the barest pressure was applied, but was sturdy and solid enough, just like the room surrounding it. This room, in fact, was one of the few that had only been touched by the Bolton's fire, rather than gutted by it.

Before them stood a handful of young women, all of them Northern with typical Northern characteristics. All looking for a way to escape the hellish life they'd been living since the Red Wedding.

“I knew her once, you know,” the girl standing directly before them was saying, her dark hair just not quite dark enough in Gendry's eyes. She explained, “Jory Cassle, Lord Stark’s captain of the Guard, was my cousin, he used to bring me in to the castle all the time.” Nodding confidently, she said, “Arya and I would talk about this and that over our sewing, sometimes we'd even invent new songs, and--”

"Yes, yes, ah,” Gendry forced himself to smile at the wisp of a girl. Arya had never once sat through an entire sewing lesson, much less talked about songs, she was much more inclined to following her brothers around and trying to master the sword.  _ No, _ Gendry thought,  _ songs and sewing . . . that was Sansa.  _ “Thank you, we'll ah--”

“We’ll let you know,” Davos chimed in, his smile looking much more sincere than Gendry's felt. “Next, please.”

Another girl, this one with eyes bluer than Gendry's, stepped forward. She curtseyed to the both of them, showing off an impressive amount of grace, and took a deep breath.

“Next, please,” Gendry winced, ducking his head to avoid the girl’s glare.

Davos clucked his tongue, “And what was wrong with that one?”

“Her eyes,” he said quietly, “Arya's were gray. Hers were blue. And that curtsy. Arya would never curtsy.” He remembered the last time he'd told her that she should, she'd been in a dress covered in acorns, a deep scowl set on her face. He'd been laughing so hard at the look of her, told her she looked like the lady she truly was, and that she should curtsy, because that's what ladies did. She'd shoved him to the ground, harsher than he'd anticipated, which had only made him laugh all the more.

A bittersweet taste flooded his mouth, taking him by surprise and made him grip onto the table, his nails digging into the grooves of the wood.

Davos narrowed his eyes, suspiciously looking over Gendry. “I'll agree with you on the coloring of the eyes, but Gendry,” he sighed, the patience and understanding in his eyes too overwhelming for Gendry to bare. “We're not looking for the real Arya, lad. Just for someone who looks enough like her. We can teach her the rest later.”

Giving him a jerky nod, Gendry motioned for the next girl to step forward. She was a skinny girl, with a traditional Northern face, and eyes dark enough that they could possibly pass them for gray with the right lighting. The girl bat her eyelashes at the two men across from her, “Cousin,” she started, her voice deep and sultry. “It's me, Arya.”

Then she shimmied and Gendry groaned, his head falling back against his chair.

“This is pointless,” Gendry said once he and Davos were alone together. It'd been weeks since Davos came to him with his plan and so far none of the young women they had seen could pass for Arya.  “They hardly even looked like Arya. If none of them can convince me, you can be sure her brother won’t be, either.”

“Well, it has been almost seven years now since you last saw the princess,” Davos reasoned, “ten, for Prince Jon. If she were to suddenly appear now I doubt you'd be able to recognize her.”

“I'd recognize her,” Gendry said gruffly as he gathered up the last of his things and began walking out of the castle. True, the last time he'd seen Arya she'd been no more than two and ten, and she'd been filthier than he for the most of it, but Davos was wrong. It wouldn't matter how much time had passed since their last meeting, they could both be old and gray and he'd still know her anywhere, just by her eyes.

He’d never forget her eyes, not for as long as he lived. They were so strong, like pure Valyrian steel, and so full of life, too. He could always tell what Arya was thinking just by looking into them. Then he remembered how her eyes had looked the last time he saw her.  That was another thing he’d never forget; how broken and angry they’d looked, how betrayed and lonely.

“ _ I could be your family _ ,” she'd said, her voice so small and hopeful with just the barest hint of a tremble.

And he, like the bull headed boy she always said he was, replied,  _ “You wouldn't be my family, you'd be m’lady.” _

Maybe if he hadn't been such a craven that day, maybe if he had just accepted the fact that Arya was all the family he'd ever really known, ever really need, things would be different.

Time and time again he thought: if he had just gone with her to the Frey’s, maybe she'd still be alive.

Or maybe he'd be just as dead as she, but for some reason that thought never bothered him so much.

Shaking his thoughts away, he reminded himself harshly that none of it mattered. It didn't matter if he had done this or that, because he hadn't. It didn't matter if he could recognize Arya just by her eyes, because she was dead.

Gritting his teeth, Gendry's fingers twitched. He needed to get back to his forge where he could hit something without Davos watching him with eyes full of pity.

They had just passed the old Guards Hall when Davos stopped in his tracks, “Do you hear that?”

Frowning, Gendry strained his ears for anything out of the ordinary. The sun was close to setting, and a few wolves, awaking from their slumber to begin their nightly hunt, were howling in the distance, some old flags, so old they still bore the Stark colors and sigil, flapped in the wind above them, and then, he heard something. A dull thud.

“What d’you think that is?” He asked as the sound continued, over and over. It sounded like something wooden maybe, hitting against something else.

“A door maybe?” Brows furrowed and lips tugged downwards, Davos was deep in thought. “We didn't leave anything open did we?”

“No,” they were always careful not to. No one was supposed to enter the castle. The Boltons had it boarded before they left, and had decreed that anyone found trespassing would be sentenced to death.

Thankfully the men the Boltons had left behind were not the most loyal, and could be paid to turn a blind eye to the many tracks in the snow that led to the castle. An open door, though, wouldn't be ignored, not when all the doors were supposed to be sealed shut.

“It's probably some child,” Davos said, beginning to walk again. “Trying to find someplace warm to rest for the night. Come on,” he started leading Gendry towards the noise. “Let's give him a talking to about the dos and don’ts of trespassing.”

Gendry hummed, slightly annoyed that his return to the forge would be delayed. He couldn't let Davos walk the castle grounds alone, though, especially not so late in the day, so off they went.

They found the culprit close to the North Gate. A strong wooden door, with no signs of decay or rot, had been left open for the wind to viciously slam it against a stone wall again and again. Where the door led to, though, had both men halting in their steps.

“That leads to the Crypts,” Gendry said dumbly.

“Aye,” Davos nodded, his frown deepening.

No one had been inside the Crypts since before Bran and Rickon were murdered. Everyone in the North knew better than to disturb the dead that resided there. Some said it was haunted, that whoever trespassed would be cursed by the ghosts of the fallen Stark children; the ones whose bodies never made it home.  It was all rubbish, of course, just some more rumors invented to keep the smallfolk entertained.

“You think it's a Wildling down there?” Gendry asked. He wished he'd brought his hammer. Though it wouldn't do him much good down in such a tight space.

“Only one way to find out,” Davos responded.  Giving the empty yard around them quick once over--ensuring they weren’t being followed--he led the way forward.

Taking the narrow, winding staircase down into the Crypt, Gendry's eyes desperately tried to adjust to the darkness. After a near miss of a step, Davos stopped their descent. “Here,” he grabbed a long forgotten torch from the wall.  The rag that sat within the torch’s iron sconce was still damp with oil that had been prepared before King Robb’s death, still waiting for a Stark to return and visit their ancestors.

Pulling a match out from gods knew where-- _ honestly, _ Gendry thought,  _ trust Davos to have that handy at a moment's notice _ \--he lit the torch and began his descent.

Thankfully they didn't have to go down too far. Arya had told him about the Crypts below her home long ago, about how they went down for miles, each level housing older and older generations of Starks. Wildling or not, Gendry was glad when they heard something on the closest level. The one that held the bodies of Arya’s grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark, and her aunt and uncle, Lyanna and Brandon.

Whoever it was had come prepared, Gendry could tell that much from the warm yellow light at the end of the cavernous room. As they stalked closer, their nerves on edge as they prepared themselves for a possible attack, Gendry's mind provided him with an image of the person they were about to find.

He thought of a Wildling man, with thin hair that stood up at odd angles, frozen in place by frost and wind. With a beard longer than his knees and more knots in it than a tapestry. He imagined the man to wear thick layers of furs and to had eyes so wide he'd be able to make out the whites of them, even in this darkness.

What his mind did not prepare him for was a young woman with long hair tied into a neat braid, who wore trousers and a tunic under a thin cloak and acted like the cold was of no consequence to her at all.

“Oi!” He heard himself call out to her, barely registering Davos’s startled jolt beside him. “What're you doing down here?”

Her head snapped up, and her eyes--so clear and gray and  _ Arya _ \--locked onto his. Gendry felt like he'd been punched, like he hadn't even seen the hit coming. His knees almost gave out beneath him and all the air inside his lungs deflated at the sight of her.

Davos elbowed him in the side and Gendry had to blink several times as he tried to gain his bearings.  _ Arya was dead _ , he told himself again and again, almost like a mantra. He reminded himself of that cold truth until he felt like he could breathe again.

This girl wasn't Arya, because Arya was dead. Arya was dead, but, he thought with a slight tremble running down his spine, she could play the part.

 

_ Cat | Winterfell _

 

Cat had made it to Westeros several days ago, her ship docking in White Harbor, and had begun her journey north immediately after. What little silver she had left from her duel she’d spent on a bit of food and a horse. Her bread had been stale and the horse practically lame, but she'd made it to Winterfell all the same.

She wasn't sure what had made her journey to Winterfell, exactly. She'd still been on her ship when she made the decision. The captain, an elderly man with leathery, sun-tanned skin and not a single strand of hair atop his head, had loaned her a map of the North. She may not know facts about herself, about her time in this country, but she knew Winterfell was the heart of the North, its capital, and, as she looked down at the hand drawn man, that Winterfell was where she needed to go.

It had been strange, for the past few days, to see so many people wearing so many furs, covering their bodies up with cloth or steel. The smells were different too. Braavos smelled like oysters and a multitude of spices. She never went a day there without smelling saffron or cumin. In White Harbor, though, there was only the sharp smell of salt and fish. Everyone she spoke to talked in the Common Tongue as well, which hadn't happened outside of her dreams these past several years. It had been years since she'd last spoken in her mother tongue. It felt good to speak it again, but it also felt foreign to her lips.

When she arrived at Winterfell, Cat had expected, perhaps foolishly, that she'd see something that would trigger a memory. And mayhaps it was because the town was all but in ruins, but as she'd ridden through and talked to some of the villagers who lived outside the castle, nothing had stuck out to her.

And then she’d seen the broken tower, and something prickled in the back of her mind. The castle had been long deserted, its windows and doors barred or sealed, and most of it was burned to a crisp. It looked . . . not dead, but in a deep sleep, waiting for someone to shake it awake.

The tower, though, hadn't been burned like the rest of the castle. It was just broken, and looked as if it had been that way for a long time. Cat had stared at it for a while, wondering what about it had caught her eye. Something had sparked to life inside of her upon seeing it, but it was was dim, like a dying ember.

She had no memories of this place, and yet, when she looked up at the crumbled tower, her chest had tightened with phantom pangs of fear and anger. Something happened here, she knew it deep within her very being. She just didn't know what.

Then she’d noticed  the ironwood door. It stood out to her like a sore thumb due to its age and thickness.  Opening the door, Cat looked down at a spiral staircase that descended into darkness. Knowing her eyesight was good, but not  _ that _ good, she grabbed one of the torches from the wall and frowned at it.  The rag wrapped around it was still damp with decade old oil, like it was waiting for her to use it.  Taking in her surroundings, the scarred castle with its burnt facade and ruined interior, she wondered when someone had last entered this part of the building.  

Using a bit of metal to strike a spark against the stone wall and light the torch, Cat decided to explore its depths one level at a time. At first, she thought the underground tunnels were a cellar that was built to withstand a siege or stockpile grain during Winter, she could see no other purpose for it as she walked for what felt like ages. After a while, she began to wonder what down here had called to her so, and then she saw them; three statues. Cat shivered, feeling as if they'd known she was coming.

Shaking away that ridiculous thought--they were statues, they waited for nothing and no one--Cat stalked closer to look upon the stony faces of past lords. They sat on unmovable thrones with a sword carved across their laps, their faces were all severe and expectant, like they were guarding something and waiting for someone to come and attack them for it.

Out of the three statues, there was only one woman, and, as if a spell had been cast upon her, the other two statues faded away until it was just her and Cat. The lady sat on a throne like the other, but she had no sword on her lap. Her face was different too, she looked less severe and more lonely. Sad, almost. Cat wondered who she was. A name was on the tip of her tongue, waiting for her to speak it into reality, but before she could properly find it, a voice called out to her, breaking her focus.

Eyes snapping up to meet a pair bluer than any sapphire, Cat frowned at the man standing across from her. Within her, emotions went to battle, betrayal and sorrow dueled longing and comfort for some unknown prize. Her blood boiled and Cat didn't know why. Why did this man’s face make her feel like she was trapped in a raging hurricane?

His face wasn't unpleasant to look at, true, but it was just a face. She'd seen hundreds like his before, had worn a few as well. Her reaction to seeing him didn't make sense. Unless . . .

Maybe she knew him, she realized with a start. Maybe that's what her body was trying to tell her. Breath catching in her chest as the very possibility, Cat’s chest ballooned with hope. Maybe he knew who she was, where she came from, who her family was. Maybe, maybe, maybe . . .

The man, too, seemed to be warring with himself, his emotions plain as day on his face. He stared at her, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, like she was one of the statues behind her, risen by the breath of life.

Then, almost like a slamming door, his face shut to a close. “Who are you?” His words were curt and biting.

Raising a brow, Cat’s gray eyes flickered between the two men briefly before she answered, “Cat. Cat of the Canals.  Valar Morghulis,” she greeted in the typical Braavosi fashion.

Hearing his words, disappointment flooded her core. Her fast built hope disappeared like a leaf in the wind as she accepted that they, too, didn't know who she was.

All that wasn't going to distract her, though. She may not have finished her training at the House of Black and White, but she'd learned enough to know not to put her guard down before these two strangers. Keeping her body side-face, she deftly found the hilt of her sword beneath her cloak, her fingers grasping onto it in case she needed to use it.

“Valar Dohaeris,” the older man responded, his proper pronunciation surprising Cat.  “From Braavos, are you?” His tone, so innocently inquisitive and sincere that her distrust wavered. She still kept her hand on her sword, but she no longer worried as much that either man would try to attack her. “I visited Braavos once, a few years back, to meet with the Iron Bank.”

Brow quirking, Cat couldn't help but to ask, “You dealt with the Iron Bank and weren't consumed by debt?” Her lips twitched with the hint of a smile, “Impressive.”

“Och, where are my manners?” The man shook his head. “My name is Davos Seaworth, and this here,” he gestured to the younger man at his side, “is Gendry. Now,--”

“What're you doing down here?” Gendry repeated, his voice lower and more dangerous than before. Cat tightened the grip on her sword, but didn't draw it. “How'd you even know about it?”

“Gendry,” Davos admonished, his tone short. Making eye contact with her, he said, “Don’t mind Gendry, miss, the Crypt here is setting him on edge.”  He grimaced, looking over his shoulder like he expected someone to be there, watching them in the darkness. Nothing was there, though, and so he continued freely, “And the castle in general. You couldn't have known this, being from Braavos and all, but you're not exactly allowed to be--”

“I just saw it,” Cat interrupted, her eyes trained on Gendry as she spoke. “The tower, the Crypt, and then,” she shrugged, “here I am. I thought I--” she cut herself off with a harsh bite to her bottom lip. Then, with great effort, she decided to continue. She came to Westeros to find her family. She wasn't going to be able to do that alone. Gendry and Davos hadn't attacked her get, and seemed very unlikely to, no matter how angry the younger of the two was at her. Mayhaps they could help her.

“I thought I might remember something,” Cat dropped the fake Braavosi accent as she spoke. “About who I am.”

“You don't,” Gendry started slowly, his dark brows furrowing above his eyes, “you don't know who you are?” He shared a glance with Davos, his eyes alight with some unknown emotion.

Cat shook her head slowly, hesitant to tell them more. But if there was even a chance they could help her, “I know my name is Cat, and that I'm from here.” She frowned, “The North, at least.”

Whatever emotion she'd seen on Gendry's face was promptly wiped off, and Davos looked at her like she held the answer to some frustrating puzzle. Chin raising defensively, she asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“My apologies,” Davos bowed his head. “It's just that, well, you look an awful lot like,” he gestured to the statue of the woman behind her, “Lyanna Stark.”

Lyanna Stark, Cat glanced back at the statue, wondering why that name unleashed a sense of foreboding within her.  “ _ Lyanna Stark, _ ” a voice, weary and old, and far, far away sighed. “ _ Beautiful, and wilful, and dead before her time. _ ”  

“And, you see,” Davos continued slowly, like he wasn't sure what words were about to spill from his mouth next. Whatever it was, it'd be a lie. Cat knew one when she heard it. Keeping her hand on her sword, Cat did as the Kindly Man had taught her, and listened.

“We've been tasked with reuniting Princess Arya Stark with her cousin, Prince Jon Targaryen, in Mereen.”  _ Lie, _ Cat thought as she tried to keep her face neutral. “And you,” Davos said, his speech speeding up to a normal pace, “You share quite a likeness to her.”

_ True, _ she decided, his confidence confirming it. Davos bumped Gendry in the side with his elbow and the taller man sighed, “You do resemble her. Especially,” he looked down at his feet, “the eyes. You have her eyes.”

“And the looks of a Stark, that's for sure. Dark hair, a long face,” he listed off, “and gray eyes, aye.”

“You'd be about the same age as her,” Gendry grounded out, his shoulders high and tense. He still couldn't look at her which made Cat wonder what his relationship to this princess used to be, that just talking about her caused him such grief.

Slowly, Cat asked, “And you think I'm her? That I'm a lady,” she glanced up at the statue of Lyanna doubtfully, “or a princess or something?”

“We've seen many a girl pretending to be Arya Stark,” Davos said quickly, his accent thickening in his rush. “And not one of them looked like the princess as much as you.”

Eyes narrowing, Cat looked Davos from top to bottom, bringing him up for measure. There was something they weren't telling her, she could tell, but his words hadn't been false, either. She wondered what they were hiding, but decided it didn't matter. She was no princess, she knew that. Or, at least, she thought she did. Titles like princess and lady . . . the words echoed in her mind like a hollow sound and made her feel empty. It wasn't her.

“You're wrong,” she told them.

Finally looking back up at her, Gendry's blue eyes gazed directly into hers, “How would you know?” He winced as he realized how rude he sounded, “I just mean,” he tried to backtrack. Sighing harshly out of his nostrils, he spoke again, though much slower this time and with more thought, “You said it yourself, you don't remember who you are, so you can't be sure whether or not you're Arya Stark.”

“Look, you don't remember what happened to you, right?” He waited for her to nod, “well, no one knows--” he stopped and looked away. His brows furrowed, and it looked like he had trouble swallowing. Cat watched, fascinated, as a million emotions flitted across his face. He opened and closed his mouth, trying to speak, but was unable to continue.

Davos looked at Gendry, worry clear in his eyes, but the younger man roughly shook his head, silently telling Davos to leave him be. With a reddening face and a grim-set mouth, Gendry continued, “No one knows what happened to her.” Ducking his head, Gendry's eyes flickered between Cat and his feet, “Maybe you're not Arya,” he reasoned, his voice barely a murmur. “Maybe you are, but you'll never know for sure unless you come with us.”

Cat’s gray eyes stared into Gendry's blue, and was frustrated to find that she agreed with him. She could turn down their offer, she thought, and tried to imagine what would happen if she did.

If she stayed in Winterfell, she could try to find someone else to help her, try to find someone who knew her, but there was slim chance of that. From what little she'd seen of the North, of its people and its buildings, they were in no position to help someone, especially not someone they viewed as a stranger. She could travel to every city in the North and never learn anything about her past, or about her family.

And this castle . . . something had called her to it, but she'd gained nothing from her explorations. This place was like a memory from a dream, it was nothing tangible for her to grasp onto and grow from. Cat knew she wasn't a lady--definitely not a princess--but she'd been here before, at least once. Perhaps her family had served the Starks, before they had all perished.

If that were the case, she thought, an idea blossoming in her mind, then maybe this Prince Jon would recognize her, tell her who she really was and where she really belonged.

“The prince would know right away,” she said slowly, more to herself than to either of the men. “And if I'm not Arya, then it was all just an honest mistake.”

Gendry nodded, silently confirming her musings. Davos added, “Aye, that's true enough, but if you are the princess,” he smiled kindly, his eyes so warm and sincere that Cat almost released the hilt of her sword, “then you'll have your family back.”

Trying to keep her face as neutral as possible--she didn't need either of them to know how much those words made her pulse quicken or her chest swell with hope--she nodded. Finally releasing her sword from her grasp, she extended her hand to them, “To Mereen, then.”

“Aye,” Davos said, a triumphant grin on his lips. He took her hand and shook it, “Off to Mereen.”

“Now that that's settled,” Gendry said, pulling his furs closer to himself, “let's hurry out of here before someone notices and informs the Bastard of Bolton.”

Following Gendry out, Cat asked, “Who’s the Bastard of Bolton?”

“Technically he's  _ Lord _ Bolton now,” Davos grimaced, his eyes darkening as he lost himself in thought. “He’s the Warden of the North, and, technically,” he said that word again, slower this time, “he’s this castle’s liege lord.”

“Forget the technicalities,” Gendry bit out, looking over his shoulder and down at Cat as he led the way up the stairs. “All you need to know about him is that he's a monster, and you should pray to the Seven that we never see him.”

Cat sucked in a sharp breath, his words reverberating in her mind.

“ _ A lady’s armor is courtesy _ .” The words came to her in an ancient whisper. Cat had no idea what they meant, or who had said them, but they were familiar in a repetitive way, like a mantra or a lesson.

A woman with a round, stern face covered in long, dull colored robes flashed through her mind. A spike of frustration and dread bled into Cat’s heart at the image, but she didn't know why. Who was this mysterious woman? Her mother, perhaps?

Septa, her mind supplied. She was a Septa. A slew of long forgotten words coursed through her head; Septa, Septon, the Mother, the Father, the Crone . . . the people of Braavos didn't worship the Seven, but even if they did, Cat knew she wouldn't have prayed to them. She'd learned long ago that there was only one god, and his name was Death. And there was only one thing she said to Death.  _ Not today _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so first off THANK YKU SO MJCH FOR ALL THE COMMENTS THEYRE SO BEAUTIFUL TO ME!
> 
> Second, I forgot to mention before, but the White Walkers do not exist in this world because I hate them and they are stupid imo. (Maybe they're better in the books, but to me they're just so annoying in the show. Like...a zombie dragon? Really?)
> 
> Anyway! Next chapter I plan to introduce the villain, aka Cersei. I haven't started on that chapter though so it may take a while especially because I've been neglecting other things for this fic (like the book I'm writing. Oops) but don't worry it's a coming.
> 
> As always, please leave a comment and let me know what you think!


	3. A Corpse Falling to Bits

_Cersei | King’s Landing_

Cersei satsat her desk with green eyes trained on the door across the room. Her thin fingers were wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. The slight tremors in her hand made the dark liquid inside ripple. Frowning down at the tiny crimson waves, she brought the glass to her lips and took a gluttonous gulp, hoping the wine would stop the tremors. It did, and Cersei felt the muscles in her hand relax, but she knew it wouldn't be long before the issue returned.

The door swung open, grabbing the Queen's attention, as her brother strode through the door. “Cersei,” he greeted, his brows furrowed with concern. “You called for me?”

His green eyes, identical to her own, examined her, trying to find something amiss. He’d been looking at her lately with a great deal of apprehension, as if he expected her head to roll off her shoulders. When his eyes darted high, higher than her eyes or her brow, she sneered. His attention had been caught by her wig again, it seemed.

Although her walk of atonement had occurred almost a decade ago, her body still hadn't recovered. Yes, her hair had grown back, but what once was straight and golden as straw had turned wiry and gray. Once upon a time, Cersei could have boasted that her hair was thick enough to braid rope but now the strands were so thin that in some places her scalp was visible.

Cersei had detested the sight of herself, and had immediately ordered her locks cut and a wig maker to the Red Keep. If she were being fair, she'd admit that the wig wasn't terribly obvious, and that even she could barely notice a difference. But Jaime’s darting eyes always reminded her that life wasn't fair, and it didn't matter how well made the wig was because everyone knew it was fake.

Qyburn claimed it was the stress that had turned her hair limp and given her hand its tremble. Yes, she supposed she had been through a great deal of stress these last few years. First there was Joffrey, her precious first born, slain at his own wedding by that witch, Olenna. Then that bloody walk. And Myrcella . . . She thought about her only daughter, wondering whether she had died before or after her walk, and then waved the thought away. And finally, Tommen. Her baby boy, jumping from his own window. Each and every one of these events had brought her more grief and stress than any human knew what to do with, but it wasn't the cause for what ailed her.

Qyburn may call it stress, but Cersei knew it for what it truly was. She was cursed. It couldn't have been any plainer than if it'd been written on a piece of parchment.

Looking away from her other half, she skimmed the tips of her fingers along the edge of note that lay before her. The message had come by Raven just an hour ago, its contents confirming the Queen’s worst fears.

“We received a message today,” she said quietly, keeping her eyes trained on the black words that had bled into the letter. “From one of our spies in Winterfell.”

Why the Boltons decided to stay at the Dreadfort, Cersei would never understand. Winterfell had been a symbol of the North's power for eight thousand years. Who cared if the _castle_ had been burnt? It could be rebuilt. Nevertheless, the Boltons absence left the people to free to whisper about better days, to congregate and bond, to revolt. The Northerners still thought of the Starks as their true leaders, which hadn't been a problem. At least, it hadn't been yesterday.

“A girl is claiming to be Arya Stark,” she said, her lips twisting downwards into a scowl. Standing up, she handed Jaime the slip of a message on her way to the decanter of wine.

“That's not possible,” Jaime said as he read the message, holding it in his one good hand. “Arya Stark died a long time ago.”

Refilling her glass up to the brim, Cersei hummed a laugh, “Did she? I don't recall seeing her dead body, do you?”

“Well no, but,” Jaime frowned down at the message. “She was only a child when everything happened. There's no way she could have survived. Whoever this woman is,” he crumpled up the note and threw it back onto her table. “She’s an imposter.”

“Imposter or not,” Cersei said through a tight jaw. Her back was still to him, but she could hear how he shifted in his leathers and armor. Taking a deep gulp of her wine, she continued,“ she's a threat.”

Arms wrapping around her shoulders, causing her shoulders to stiffen ever so slightly at the sudden contact, Jaime pressed his body close to hers. He sighed before leaning close to press a kiss to her cheek. Cersei’s eyes fluttered to a close, and for a moment she felt peace. But like everything else in her life it quickly faded away. He used to kiss the back of her head, her temple, her brow. He used to run his nose through her hair and breathe in her scent. But now . . .

“How much of a threat can one girl be?” Jaime asked, trying like always to be helpful. Failing at it, too.

Ripping herself out of Jaime's arms, Cersei returned to her seat and sat down. “She’s a Stark, Jaime. The last time a girl pretended to be Arya the Northerners rallied to save her from the Boltons.”

_For Ned Stark's little girl!_ The men had cried into battle. Sometimes Cersei wondered if her father’s bannermen would have done the same for her, had she been the one held hostage.

Lip curling, she pushed the thought away, “And if her bastard of a brother or cousin, or whatever he's calling himself--”

“Jon Targaryen?” Jaime clarified, his eyebrows shooting up. Hearing the name sent a sharp ache through the Queen's head and she reached for her wine. “Cersei, he's off in Mereen, he--”

“Yes,” she hissed, cutting him off. “He's in Mereen, with his aunt who has an army of Unsullied, the Dothraki, and three dragons!” She knew the rumors, knew that Ned’s bastard son still searched for his long lost little sister. Daenerys Targaryen might be content to rule Essos for now, but this girl's claims could change everything.

The North had rallied for Arya's cause before, and they would again. Especially if Jon substantiated the girl's claim. With Arya on her side, the Targaryen whore would have the North in the palm of her hand. It'd be perfect, she'd be able to attack from the north and the south, pushing Cersei and what few allies remained further and further until they crumbled like a stale lemon cake.

Cersei downed the rest of her wine. The past few years had not only been hard on her personally, but also to the country. The many civil wars that had plagued her country had left it barren of soldiers, grain, and most of its gold. Westeros wouldn't survive another onslaught. _She_ wouldn't survive it.

This was all because of those bloody Starks. They'd been a thorn in her side ever since that first visit to Winterfell. Ned’s inquisition and discovery, Catelyn's meddling and schemes, Robb and his rebellion, Bran’s climbing and all too seeing eyes, Sansa and her endless, incessant chatter, Arya’s wildness and defiance, it had all chipped away at her very being and ate away at her until there was nothing left but a tremble and a wig. They had cursed her, and Cersei feared she'd never be rid of them.

“Did you just say you were cursed?” Jaime asked, a deep line forming between his brows. He stepped closer and deftly moved the wine glass out of Cersei’s reach.

Blinking up at him, the Queen reached up and touched her lips. Had she said that? She hadn't meant to. Shaking her head, she redirected the conversation, “This girl needs to be dealt with. Now.”

Rolling his eyes up to look at the ceiling, Jaime breathed out a long sigh. It was a familiar noise, one that Cersei had heard a million times before. He was tolerating her, the sigh said. “And how do you propose we do that?” He asked, returning his gaze to hers. “We don't have many resources to spare at the moment, if you hadn't noticed.”

Waving his concerns away, Cersei leaned forward to retake her wine glass and stood, intending on refilling it. “I've already instructed Qyburn to send word to Lord Bolton. He’s been instructed to handle it.”

“Bolton?” Jaime all but spat. He followed Cersei to the wine, “Ramsay Bolton? He's a beast in human skin, he’s--”

“Exactly what I need to get the job done.” Cersei finished, pouring two glasses of wine and handing one to Jaime.

Ignoring the glass, Jaime stared down at her with flared nostrils, “He can't be controlled, or trusted, Cersei. He's rumored to have killed his own father. He won't hesitate to turn on you.”

Cersei smirked, “So did your baby brother, and yet you still forgave him.”

A muscle in Jaime’s jaw lashed out and pushed against his skin as he ground his teeth. “Cersei--”

“What’s done is done,” she said, taking both glasses of wine back with her to sit down.

“What _is_ done, exactly?” Jaime asked as he rubbed the fingers of his good hand into his temple. “What did you tell Bolton to do?”

“I told him to find the girl. If she's an imposter then he can do with her as he wishes.” If he's smart, he'll keep up the Arya ruse and reclaim her as his bride to strengthen his hold over the North.

“And if she is Arya Stark?”

Taking a sip of wine, Cersei replied calmly, “Then he’s to leave her body floating in the Trident.”

“Cersei,” Jaime sighed softly, his eyes pleading with hers. “He'll tear the poor girl apart.”

Thinking about all the pain, all the anguish and frustration the Stark family had brought upon her, the Queen replied, “Good.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought of Cersei! She was very fun to write I must say. Now I know this was a shortie but it's as long as it needed to be and I feel like the next one will be much longer. Mainly because Ramsay is gonna make an appearance. Yikes.
> 
> Anyway, please leave a comment or kudos!


	4. Assault on the Kingsroad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay has his orders. The hunt is on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Trident flows 
> 
> A new wind blows 
> 
> And Winter is coming 

_Ramsay | Dreadfort_

 

Dining in his Great Hall alone, with only a single peasant boy to refill his wine glass, Ramsay Bolton slurped his leek soup with a smile stretching across his face. Every swallow, every spoonful echoed off the stone walls making the serving boy fidget out of the corner of his eye.

The boy was small for his age and his fear made Ramsay's nose tingle with excitement. _Leek soup_ , he mused as he scraped the bottom of the bowl noisily for the last bits of his dinner. _Leek, Reek . . ._ Mayhaps it was time for a new Reek. Mayhaps this boy would take on the mantle.

Spoon slowing in its scraping movements, Ramsay scowled as he thought of the last Reek. He'd been such a disappointment; hardly any fun at all. Especially at the end, when he ran away with Ramsay's bride.

But it was no matter, the Warden of the North assured himself. He'd rectify his mistakes and--

“M’lord,” a voice punctured through his thoughts. Eyes snapping up to meet those of his Maester, who'd entered the room quieter than a mouse, Ramsay grunted at the old man to continue. “A raven has arrived from King's Landing.” The man hobbled forward, weighed down by his many chains, “It’s a letter from the Queen.”

Frowning curiously, Ramsay snatched the small bit of parchment from the Maester’s gnarled hands once he was close enough. The script was neat and small, the orders concise. Ramsay’s face contorted into what should have been a smile. _So there was a new pretender,_ he thought with glee.

Crumbling the note in the palm of his hand, Ramsay pushed his empty bowl away and ordered, “Ready the dogs.”

  


_Cat | The Kingsroad_

 

They were being watched. Cat could feel eyes on the back of her neck, but whenever her eyes scoured their wooded surroundings, she saw nothing. The birds were still chirping, their horses showed no sign of fear, and neither of her traveling companions sensed anything, but Cat knew to trust her instincts.

They'd been traveling along the Kingsroad for over a week and still had several more days to go before reaching White Harbor. At first, Cat had protested the use of such a popularly used road, but Davos had argued that it was much safer than taking the backroads because of all the bandits that lurked along them. She'd eventually relented, admitting to herself that they knew the paths better than she, but the Kingsroad still made her feel uneasy.

Cat wished they'd ride faster, or longer during the day, but she knew her horse was too old and too weary to survive a harder ride, especially after the initial trip to Winterfell. Still, it took every bit of training and self control not to dig her heels harder into the horse’s side.

“Tell me more about this Prince Jon,” she said, needing a distraction from spurring on her horse, one that could keep her eyes free to survey the area.

Davos and Gendry exchanged a look, a troubled one that raised her figurative hackles. But then, after clearing his throat, Davos nodded, “He’s your cousin.” Gendry made a contradicting grunt which Davos ignored, “He was raised with you and your siblings in Winterfell and then left to join the Night’s Watch.”

_The Night’s Watch_ , Cat thought as a wave of nostalgia rose within her, defenders of the Wall for eight thousand years. Part of her, some strange and seemingly ancient part of her, told her it was an honor to join the Watch. But then another part, feeling just as old and unknown as the other, reminded her of who made up the Brotherhood.

“He was a criminal?” She asked, a bit incredulously. She couldn't remember how royalty was treated in Westeros, but in Essos, they were never even accused of a crime much less convicted of one.

Davos laughed. It was loud and echoing and made Cat’s shoulders tense. She still couldn't find anything in the trees around them, but that sound was bound to gain attention. The older man didn't seem to notice though, or maybe he just didn't mind. Either way, he continued on, “Jon, a criminal?” He chuckled again, “No, he's a good man through and through.” Sobering some, he added, “He volunteered.”

“When you meet him you'll see,” Gendry added, noticing Cat’s furrowed brow. “And Samwell Tarly is bound to talk your ear off, singing his praise.”

Davos’s lips thinned and his grip on his reigns tightened. Eyes narrowing, Cat asked, “Who’s Samwell Tarly?”

Gendry, just now noticing his mistake, grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck, “Well, he's . . . your brother's best friend, and,” he paused, realizing again what he'd just said. Her brother, he'd referred to Jon as her brother. Was her family incestuous? Cat frowned, no that didn't sound right.  “I mean, shit--” Gendry tried to backtrack.

“Samwell Tarly was one of Jon's brothers in the Night's Watch,” Davos cut in, his accent thickening with his frustration and quick words. “He's with him now in Mereen, and,” he paused. Obviously this wasn't information they had wanted to share with Cat. As her distrust of these two men grew, so did her suspicion that this was all too good to be true. Gathering himself, Davos continued, “To meet Prince Jon you first have to convince Samwell.”

“Convince him?” Cat repeated slowly as the words sunk in. Then, “That I'm Arya?” Her voice was loud, her tone incredulous. She didn't know what she expected, really, when she agreed to this adventure, but it hadn't been this. She was just supposed to meet the prince, and he would know if she were the real Arya or not. Now she had to meet this Samwell first? That was _not_ part of the deal. Tempering her exasperation, she leaned forward on her horse and asked, “How am I supposed to do that?”

“Well,” Davos started, shooting a glare Gendry's way, “he'll ask you a few questions that only Arya would know, and--”

“But I _don't_ know!” Cat interrupted, her voice coming out as a whispered hiss as she tried to get a hold over her anger. “I don't remember anything, so how can I--”

“We'll teach you,” Gendry blurted, his blue eyes wide and his cheeks turning red. “We'll teach you everything you need to know. Just--just trust us.”

Looking into his eyes, Cat wondered if she should. Trust was not something that came easily to her, nor anyone that went through the House of Black and White, and with all their scheming . . .

“So you want me to lie?” She asked coolly, inspecting their facial expressions, gleaning for anything that might indicate they were lying to her. Cat didn't like lies, and she especially didn't like liars. Even during her training, when she wore other people's faces and pretended to be someone else to get close to her target, she hated it and all the lies and half truths it entailed. Each fabrication that spilled from her mouth grated against her tongue like flint.

Only one person could ever see through them. Only one person could see the discomfort and frustration lying brought her. At the end of every day, The Kindly Man would ask his question, _“Who are you?”_

And every night she would answer him, _“I am No One.”_

And every night, he would smile at her sadly and say, _“You lie_.”

He was right, of course. He was always right. She wasn't _No One_ . She was _someone,_ even if she couldn't remember who. And now that she was free of that life, free of the lies and free of the pretending, she abhorred the very notion of returning to it.

“It’s not a lie,” Davos disagreed, “not when you don't know for sure.”

“Not technically,” Gendry muttered, his face turning away from hers.

“We just need to convince Samwell to let you see Jon. Then the Prince will be able to sort everything out.” Davos gave Cat a smile that reminded her of the Kindly Man. It wasn't malicious or untrue, but it also wasn't reassuring.

Still, Cat was putting her faith in the fact that this Prince Jon could help her find her real family. If she needed to learn some facts about this mysterious Arya, then she'd play along with their little scheme. For now, at least.

“All right,” she said slowly, returning her gaze to the road ahead of them. “What do I need to know?”

  


_Gendry | The Kingsroad_

 

Davos didn't hesitate. As soon as Cat gave her permission, he dove in. “Let’s start with the facts. You were born at Winterfell in the middle of the long summer to the Lord and Lady Stark.

“Your father, Eddard Stark, known more commonly as Ned.” Davos’s tone was even and sure, like a droning Maestera about to start in on an exceptionally long lesson.

_Arya's family, Arya's father_ , Gendry's mind corrected. He understood why Davos was kept using the word 'your’, to keep up the ruse and help Cat believe it herself, but it all still made his stomach sour.

“Lord Stark was the second son of Rickard Stark. He was Warden of the North until the late King Robert made him Hand of the King.”

“If he was the second son,” Cat began slowly, her gray eyes sweeping over both of them but not lingering. She kept looking off into the distance, making Gendry wonder what was keeping her attention. “Then why was he the Lord of Winterfell?”

Davos grimaced and shook his head, “We’ll get to that later.”

“It's complicated,” Gendry added, shrugging when she looked his way. They'd get into Robert’s Rebellion and the cause of it soon enough. Preferably when they were on a ship and not out in the open. They may be out of Winterfell, but that didn't mean they'd left the spies behind.

“Your mother,” Davos pressed on, “was the Lady Catelyn, of House Tully. She had the Tully look, with red hair and blue eyes and was said to have been quite the beauty.”

Clearing his throat, the way he did before beginning a long story, Davos began, “They had five children, yourself included. Your eldest brother was Robb.”

“King in the North,” Gendry added, thinking back to the day he and Arya had heard the news. Looking down at his hands, he said, “He’s the one who made Arya a princess.”

“Aye, King Robb.” Davos nodded, “He gave the Lannisters one hell of a fight, he did. He was known as the Young Wolf, and he had the Tully look, too.”

“Same as most Arya's siblings.” Gendry frowned as he watched Cat. She didn't seem to be listening, and barely looked at the two of them. Following her gaze, he tried to see what she saw. But there were only trees and more trees. “He also had a direwolf named Greywind.”

“A direwolf?” Cat asked, her eyes turning bright as she turned her sights onto him. “I thought they were extinct.”

Shrugging, Gendry said, “Apparently not. Each of the Stark siblings had one.”

“Even,” she paused, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Even me?”

“Even Arya,” Gendry nodded, but his answer only made the girl frown.

“Then there was Sansa,” Davos interrupted, getting the conversation back on track and shooting Gendry a look. “She was known for her beauty and her fondness of songs.”

“Complete opposite of Arya, she was,” Gendry said, enjoying the scowl that bloomed on Davos’s face. “As different as the sun and the moon.” That's what Arya had told him once, anyway.

“And _her_ direwolf?” Cat asked, her interest sharp and direct.

Davos looked to Gendry this time, and the younger man realized this was something the older didn't know. “Lady,” Gendry said softly, thinking about the story. “Her name was Lady, and she was as mild and well mannered as her mistress.”

Cat blinked once, then continued to stare at him with studious eyes. “Where are they now? Sansa, and Robb, and all the direwolf so?”

Gendry opened his mouth, intending to say something, anything, but found he couldn't. Instead, he turned his head away.

“We'll,” Davos cleared his throat nervously, “we’ll get to that later. Now let's talk about your younger siblings, Bran and Rickon.”

Gendry could still feel Cat’s eyes trained on the back of his head but he refused to look at her. She may not be Arya, but she looked enough like her. He couldn't face her and explain what happened to Arya, what happened to her family. Not yet, he wasn't ready.

Listening to Davos drone on about House Stark's family tree helped. It grounded him and brought him back to himself.

Looking up, he saw that Cat was no longer looking at him, but straight ahead. “--held the seat of Winterfell for thousands of years,” Davos was saying. “And your House words are--”

“Winter is coming,” Cat murmured, her eyes hazy and distant. Her lips had barely moved, and Gendry didn't think she even knew she'd spoken.

Looking at Davos, the older man said, “I don't believe we told her that.”

Gendry took a deep breath, readying to tell Davos that most Northerners knew their Liege Lord’s House words, but it caught in his throat.  Pulling his horse to a sudden stop, he looked left and right. The forest around them had gone silent. Something was wrong.

“Davos,” he tried to say, “I think--” the air was suddenly ripped from his chest as someone hard and firm slammed into him, knocking him off his horse.

“Shit,” he wheezed, his shoulder throbbing with the pain of the fall. Cracking an eye open, Gendry was surprised to find Cat’s gray eyes glowering down onto his face, her body pressed closely against his. “What the--”

“Shut up and stay down,” she hissed, her eyes sharp and clear. Something zoomed above their heads, making Cat dip her head into the crook of his neck.

“We've got company!” Davos yelled, stating the obvious from atop his horse.

Turning his head, Gendry saw an arrow sticking out of the ground barely a foot away. The horses screamed as they stomped the ground in fear. Cat’s reared up before taking off for safety, his own horse following closely behind.

“Gendry, your hammer--” Davos tried to say. Gendry stretched his neck, trying to catch a glimpse at his friend when three hulking masses blocked his view. The dogs were small compared to Davos’s horse, but each of them latched their massive jaws around one of its legs. The horse screamed as its legs snapped and folded.  Davos yelled with it, unable to escape the attack from his position on the horse’s back. Blood leached out onto the dirt road, spraying everywhere as the dogs ran through the growing puddles.

Falling to the ground like a sickly tree, the horse crashed onto its side, pinning Davos beneath its bulk. The dogs didn't hesitate in switching from its legs to its throat and belly, ignoring Davos for the easier prey. Gendry had heard that Ramsay starved his dogs between their hunts, but seeing their ravenous assault in action sent a shock through his system.

“Boltons,” Gendry gulped. He needed to move to get his hammer and--his hammer! It was with his horse! He didn't have anything--

“Here,” Cat pressed a dirk into his hands. Before he had time to even wonder where she'd been keeping the weapon, Cat sprung up to her feet. Pulling out a pair of daggers from beneath her cloak, she charged towards the two men just a few yards away. Part of Gendry realized he needed to move, to get to Davos, and defend himself, but he was caught in a trance watching Cat. The way she fought, it was like watching a dance. With more grace than Gendry had ever witnessed, she dodged and ducked every swing of their swords, flitting in and out of their reach.

The sharp stinging pain in his arm brought Gendry back to himself, and with a shake of his head, he pushed himself up to his feet. He had to move, he had to fight, he had to help Davos.

  


_Ramsay | The Kingsroad_

 

Ramsay’s upper lip twitched with frustration as he watched the pretender save her companion from his arrow by tackling him off his horse. From their vantage point atop a hill, not even a hundred yards away from the road, Ramsay did not understand how the girl knew the shot was coming, but it was no matter. She may have escaped the arrow, but she wouldn't escape him.

Nodding to his captain, his men and dogs advanced. It hadn't taken Ramsay long to find his prey. The Queen had informed him of their number and from there it had only been too easy to ambush them on their way to White Harbor. It was the closest port to Winterfell, after all, and all he had to do was sit and wait.

One of his archers loosed another arrow and overshot them, but his dogs had closed in on the old man’s horse. They took it down with the man still astride. Good, he thought, with no horses they had no means of escape.

The dark haired man was standing now and sliced at his dogs with a dirk, wielding it like a hammer. He killed one dog, making Ramsay bare his teeth, and the others retreated off the older man.

Whistling, Ramsay dropped his bow and called the dogs back to him. Then, he advanced. He'd only brought a handful of men with him, six in all. The ones that had fought by his side since long before his father had legitimized him.

Four were fighting against the men, who were barely parrying their blows, and two were fighting the girl. Ramsay watched with gleeful fascination how she danced around Skinner and Grunt, slipping in and out of their reach, before slicing into Grunt’s leg. The cut didn't look deep, but it was high, close to his groin. A river of blood cascaded from the wound and Grunt fell to the ground within moments.

“Skinner,” Ramsay called, catching the attention of the girl and the dark haired companion. Skinner immediately halted his attack, focusing his attention on his master. The pretender readjusted the grip on her daggers, her dark eyes switching back and forth between him and Skinner.  The tall, dark haired boy tried to get closer to the girl, pressing his thin blade against Sour Alyn’s sword. “End them,” Ramsay jerked his chin towards their male prey. “She's mine.”

“No, Cat,” the dark haired man yelled, “run!”

Before the black haired man could say anything else, Sour Alyn swung at him with his sword. Giving another order to his dogs, Ramsay pulled them away from the horse carcass and set them upon the men as well. The fight had gone on for too long already.

With the help of the dogs, the two men were pushed back into the trees, leaving him and the pretender all by themselves. “Cat, hmm?” He chuckled, “Shall I skin you like one?”

Raising her daggers and bending her knees, she replied, “You can try.”

Oh yes, Ramsay mused, she had fire in her. Much more than the last girl. He'd keep this one, he decided, and see how long it took for that fire to burn out. Drawing his sword, his lips pulled back into the semblance of a smile, “Here kitty, kitty.”

He lunged.

  


_Cat | The Kingsroad_

 

Cat sidestepped the man as he swung at her. She noticed, in the back of her mind as he continued to advance and swung again and again, that he wasn't aiming for her head, or her heart. He was aiming for her limbs, her arms and legs, and her stomach. He didn't want to kill her, that much was obvious, but he did want to maim her.

His blows were slow and sloppy, more brute force than actual finesse. Still, if he landed just one hit, she'd go down, and Cat wasn't sure if she'd be able to get back up in time.

Quick as a snake, calm as water, she reminded herself. Fear cuts deeper than swords.

Steeling her mind, Cat ducked away and took a steadying breath. She didn't survive years at the House of Black and White to be felled by this oaf of a swordsman.

“Have they told you what I did to the last Arya Stark?” He taunted, his breathing rough and heavy as he continued his merciless swings. With his eyes bright with unbridled pleasure, and his mouth still stretched out into that horrible smile, Ramsay slashed wildly. His blade cut into the side of a tree, sending shards of bark and small drops of sap everywhere. Sucking in a deep, ragged breath, he continued, “It’ll pale in comparison for what I have planned for you.”

He was cocky. _Good,_ she thought. Cocky men didn't live long. He wasn't even wearing proper armor, only hunting leathers. Ramsay swung and swung again, exerting more energy with every potential blow. He was tiring and hadn't even realized it in his zeal for her blood.

Just a little longer, Cat just had to keep up her defense a little longer. Sidestepping another jab, she danced her way through a maze of roots and when Ramsay followed, she attacked.

Swift as a deer, Cat’s dagger was flying towards the spot between his eyes. The throw was true, and would hit its target--Ramsay ducked at the last moment.

He laughed brokenly, “Kitty cat’s got claws--” he cut off short when Cat lunged in close, her sword replacing the dagger and aiming for his gut. Ramsay parried her sword easily, his own much larger and stronger.

He’d forgotten about the second dagger, though, and quiet as a shadow, Cat plunged it into the spot where neck met shoulder. At first, nothing happened. The dagger, hilt deep in his muscle and tendon, acted as a dam, keeping his blood from pooling out. Ramsay's eyes were still alight with the thrill of the hunt, the wicked smile was still on his face. He didn't yet realize he was dead.

Baring her teeth at the creature before her, Cat yanked the dagger out. Ramsay's eyes widened as he dropped his sword and his hand reached up to cover the wound. Blood, so dark it was almost black, seeped quickly through his fingers and surged down his neck and chest.

Close enough to feel his jagged breath against her face, Cat felt the misty splatter of her victim’s blood hit her cheek and chin. She could see the comprehension in his slowly dimming eyes. Cat had seen that look dozens of times before. Death was upon him, he realized, and he knew he couldn't elude it.

As Ramsay gurgled out his last breath, Cat pulled him even closer and hissed into his ear, “Valar morghulis.”

 

 

_Gendry | The Kingsroad_

 

Five against two was a hard enough fight to begin with. Five fully armed men against two barely armed and partially injured men was even worse. Those five men being the Bastard's Boys? There was no way any of them were making it out of this forest alive. _And the dogs_ , Gendry thought as he roughly spat out a curse when one snapped its teeth at him, _who could forget the dogs?_

He and Davos were lucky they survived as long as they had, though that was mostly due to the sadistic tendencies of their attackers. Just like their master, the Bastard's Boys liked to play with their prey.

Standing back to back with Davos, who had a nasty bite wound on his forearm, Gendry silently thanked Cat for the dirk she'd given him. It was no war hammer, but it was sharp and had allowed for him to save Davos from being eaten alive.  

One of Ramsay's men, the oldest from the looks of him, laughed when one of the dogs launched itself at Davos, causing him to stumble backwards into Gendry. “It's not looking too good for us,” Davos muttered too low for anyone but Gendry to hear.

Grunting in agreement, Gendry knew it'd take intervention from the Stranger himself to save them now.

Just as the men began to inch closer, death and pain glinting in their eyes, a howl sounded in the distance. At first, no one reacted to it, especially not the Bastard's Boys or the dogs. But then, not long after the first howl, a chorus erupted all around then, freezing the Boys and their prey.

The trees around them began to rustle and shake. Blurs of brown, white, and black flashed in and out of their view. “Wolves,” the oldest of the Boys growled. Then, with a wicked smile, he looked at the dogs, “Kill 'em, girls!”

The dogs snarled and snapped their jaws as they waited for the wolf pack to show themselves. Gendry expected five, maybe six wolves to appear from the cover of the trees, and hoped that, if anything, they'd be enough of a distraction to the dogs and the Boys to allow Davos and him to escape.

When they did show themselves, Gendry felt as of all the blood in his body had suddenly drained. His jaw slackened and his fingers tingled with sleep as he watched dozens and dozens of wolves step into sight.

“By the mother,” Davos whispered. Growls and snarls came from all around them, and Gendry realized that they were surrounded.

A dog whimpered and one of the Boys cracked his whip in defiance. The wolves were poised and ready to pounce, but didn't move. Cursing the old gods and the new for his shit luck, Gendry knew there was fighting it. No fighting _this._ There were too many of them. Soon the wolves would attack and he'd be dead.

Blinking rapidly, trying to keep his eyes open and clear, Gendry exhaled several choppy breaths and wondered why he was still alive when another howl sounded, this one deeper and louder than any he'd ever heard before.

The wolves attacked. Gendry pressed back, closer to Davos and sealed his eyes closed tight. _This was it,_ he thought. It sounded almost like justice, to be eaten alive by wolves.

But when the screams of mean and the high pitched yelps of dogs being torn apart reached his ears, and yet Gendry still felt no pain, he risked cracking an eye open. And what he saw caused his heart to stop cold.

Before him, just a few dozen paces away beyond in the tree line, stalked a humongous she-wolf. Her pace was steady, her hackles unraised, but her eyes pierced into him more sharply than any Valyrian sword.

Davos sputtered behind him, “Is that a--”

“Direwolf,” Gendry breathed out, feeling light headed.

As the giant she-wolf continued on, so did her pack. Her smaller brethren followed behind, not looking back once at the fresh kills they were leaving behind or the still breathing meat that still stood amidst their sea.

Finally, the direwolf broke his gaze, and Gendry felt like he could breathe again. Looking down at the still warm corpses littering the ground around them, he swore, “Cat!”

Running full speed back towards the road, Gendry broke out from the tree line to see Cat standing off to the side of the road, Ramsay's body slumped against her, blood speckled darkly against her pale skin.

Gray eyes snapping up at the sound of his arrival, Gendry sucked in a breath as he caught the look in them. They had the same intensity as that of the she-wolf’s.

Brows bunching together, the back of Gendry's mind twinged painfully, trying to get him to notice something. But before he could fully process anything that had just happened, Davos stumbled out from the forest and gasped, “What are you standing about for?” He took in a deep, shaky breath, “We need to find your horses. Now. The faster we get to White Harbor, the better.”

Davos held his injured arm close to his chest, but he didn't wince once as he began walking down the road, “Let's just hope we find them before those bloody wolves do.”

Cat grunted, shoving Ramsay’s body off of her and towards the ground. With a small huff, she wiped the blood off her face as best she could, which only served to smear it, and asked, “What wolves?”

Handing her dirk back to her, Gendry's eyes honed in on the small sword in her hand. Cat, too quick by half, was already hiding the small sword and the dirk away beneath her cloak before he could get a proper look. Shaking his head, Gendry tried to clear his thoughts. “It's a long story,” he told her. “I'll explain later.”

Shrugging, Cat turned to follow Davos down the road and with another rough shake of his head, Gendry fell into step as well.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought of Ramsay and the fight scene (and Nymeria???). My friend and editor asked for more juice (aka detailed gore) and then after the changes claimed i through a bucket of it at her when she was expecting a sip. (whoops, lol). Anyway, please leave a comment as it gives me life.


	5. I'll Bless My Homeland ('till I die)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Free from Ramsay and the Bastard's Boys, Cat, Gendry, and Davos make it to White Harbor and find a ship to take them to Meereen.

_Cat | White Harbor_

 

Standing on the dock leading to the ship that would take her back to Essos, Cat looked out at the landscape before her. The city of White Harbor was an unfamiliar sight, but it was still Westeros, still a part of the North. Her home. She didn't know when she'd be back, or if she was never to return. If Jon Targaryen truly was her cousin, she may never return from Meereen. In a way, she'd finally be breaking free from all the tears and sorrows she's sure to have shed here.

Still, this could be the last time she was to lay eyes on her homeland. It was harsh, and sweet, and bitter to leave it all again, and although Cat knew she had to go, she still felt as if she were deserting her pack, her family. Westeros had raised her just as surely as her parents had.

“Cat,” Gendry called from behind her, “it's time to board.” His voice was tense and quiet. Cat knew without looking at him that his eyes would be scanning the city streets and buildings before them as well, but for other reasons than herself.

Not taking her eyes off the city, she replied, “Let me have a moment.” _Let me say goodbye_ , she continued in her head, the thought almost desperate. She'd asked for a moment, but she could spend a lifetime saying farewell and it still wouldn't be enough.

She understood their urgency, their caution. After being attacked on the Kingsroad, Gendry and Davos became paranoid that more men would come, or that the wolves they had encountered would return. Luckily, Davos hadn't sustained more than a few bruises from the fall of his horse, and the bite wounds on his forearm weren't as deep as they looked, but they were still tender and caused him pain when holding a sword.

Cat had left Gendry to tend to Davos's wounds while she had tracked down their horses. They hadn't gotten far, and Cat had found them less than a mile away grazing by a stream. After she had brought them back, the three of them saddled up and high tailed it to White Harbor. They had barely given themselves or their horses enough time to eat and sleep, but they had made it.

Their troubles, it had seemed, wouldn't end with the Kingsroad, however. White Harbor was one of the largest cities in Westeros, thanks to its port, and was crawling with all sorts of people. From knights to cut-throats, Davos and Gendry considered every person they had passed a possible threat.

That didn't matter now though, not when they were standing on a dock on the city’s inner harbor. Not when they were moments away from boarding a ship that would take them far, far away from here and all the people that wanted them dead.

Cat’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and it took more effort than it should have to lift them again. Ever since the attack, what little sleep she took on their journey had been plagued by the strangest of dreams. She could never fully remember them in the morning, but when she'd wake, her skin would be drenched with sweat and her mouth tasted of blood.

“Cat,” Gendry's hand gripped her shoulder. Feeling her muscles tense beneath his hand, he quickly let go, “We've got to go.”

Taking in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the North, with the scent of pine and fish and something altogether wild, Cat nodded and followed Gendry onto the ship.

 

_Gendry | The Narrow Sea_

A week had passed since they departed from White Harbor and in that short amount of time Cat had somehow made friends with every member of the ship’s crew. Davos was giving her a break from her Arya lessons and she was using it to socialize with the Bosun. He was teaching her how to tie different sorts of knots and how each sail worked, and she in turn was teaching him how to speak the Common Tongue and the finer points of wielding a dagger.

Gendry wished he knew what they were saying, and wondered if Cat ever spoke about him and Davos to her new friends. The entire crew hailed from Slaver's Bay and so spoke High Valyrian, a language Cat had apparently picked up during her time in Braavos.

_She sure keeps surprising us,_ Gendry thought with a mild scowl on his face. Who was she, he often wondered. He wondered many things when it came to the mysterious Cat. Like, How did a Northern girl end up in Braavos? How did that same Northern girl lose her memory? Where did she learn to fight? He still hadn't forgotten their fight against the Bastard's Boys, against Ramsay. That day, Cat had looked positively feral, with her dagger in Ramsay’s neck and her eyes bright with bloodlust.

Gendry shivered, and pushed the thought away. _Well,_ he thought, _wherever she gained her skills, I should be grateful for them_. Without her fighting skills, Ramsay would still be alive, and them dead. And without her High Valyrian, this crew never would have agreed to take them.

This ship, a carrack, was headed straight for Ghiscari City, in Meereen. In fact, it had been the only ship in White Harbor bound for Meereen. The only other ships sailing to the Eastern continent there were due in Pentos and Lys, which wouldn't have been terrible for them, but it would've added several more weeks to their journey and lightened their pockets tremendously.

At first, the crew had been standoffish, not trusting them or their money. But then Arya began speaking to them in their mother tongue, began joking and japing with them with a mischievous smile on her face, and they soon changed their minds about taking on three passengers.

It would take a little over three weeks to sail to Meereen, if the weather held, and Davos had been using every waking moment to prepare Cat for her meeting with Samwell Tarly. So far she had memorized the Stark family tree, and she was well-versed in the fates of individual members. Memorizing all the bannermen of House Stark was proving to be a challenge, which hadn't truly surprised Gendry. There were dozens of them, and Davos wanted Cat to learn all their sigils and words. If it we're up to Gendry, he wouldn't have it down in three months, much less three weeks.

Davos grunted as he straightened his back, his elbow almost hitting the side of Gendry's head as he raised it up. “I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.” He grimaced and stroked his beard, his brows furrowed in thought. “I'm not used to being on a ship this long.”

Gendry hummed, considering Davos's words. The man used to be a smuggler, before pledging his allegiance to Stannis Baratheon. He'd used small, discreet boats to sneak in goods like foods and spices to make himself a profit. After years of that life, Gendry would've thought the older man was used to sea life. But then again, he considered, smuggling and sleeping didn't really mix. The longest he'd probably been on a ship like this was when he and Stannis visited the Iron Bank in Braavos, and that had been a much shorter journey.

Grunting and shaking his head, Davos sighed, “Maybe a nap will do me good. Wake me up in an hour, will you?”

After Gendry nodded, Davos thanked him and made his way below deck to their cabin. Returning his gaze to Cat, he hoped that the Bosun would keep her distracted for the entirety of Davos's nap. Being around Cat with Davos present was fine, but he still didn't feel comfortable around her one on one. It was her eyes, every time he looked into them he saw Arya. And without Davos to distract him from those gray pools, a cloud of shame rolled over him and threatened to cast him into its shade of despair.

Turning around, Gendry took a deep, settling breath. He watched as the waves broke against the side of the ship, and the cold mist rising up to meet his face grounded him.

“Where's Davos?” Cat's voice broke through his moment of peace, like a stone shattering a mirror. Rubbing a hand down his face, Gendry tried to steel himself before turning to look at her.

“He's not feeling well,” he shrugged, “he's gone to get some sleep.” Maybe this new development would lift her spirits some, as it would give her more time to enjoy herself. Before departing from White Harbor, it seemed as though a scowl had been permanently etched onto Cat’s face.

Tilting her head, Cat looked at him like a predator deciding what to do with captured prey. “So what now? Is it your turn to teach me something?”

Holding back a groan, Gendry looked around aimlessly, trying to avoid her intense gaze and find the words that would get him out of this situation.

“Let’s call it a day,” he said lamely, and hoped Cat wouldn't push. Taking a moment to breathe in the salty scent of the sea, he added, “Can’t do much else without Davos.”

“I thought you were supposed to teach me how to be Arya, too.” Her words were slow, calculated. “If not, then what good are you?” It wasn't an accusation so much as a curiosity, and he couldn't help but agree with her. What good _was_ he?

Choking on a self-deprecating laugh, Gendry met Cat’s gaze.  “I’m supposed to teach you how to act like her, yeah,” he nodded, “but you act enough like her already. You've definitely got her temper down.” It was a jab, an attempt to get her to lash out or walk away. He watched her with baited breath, wondering which it'd be.

Cat’s eyes narrowed and Gendry could see the urge to snap at him bubbling up behind her gray eyes. _Do it, do it!_ He silently begged. If she did, it'd be the perfect excuse for him to escape. If it were Arya, the back of his mind supplied cruelly, _I'd already be flat on my back._

With an impressive amount of control though, Cat turned her head away and forced out a deep breath. Her shoulders relaxed suddenly, as if the fight had left her, and she pursed her lips. “You must've known her well then,” she said softly, her words almost blowing away in the wind.

“What?” Blinking, Gendry stood a bit straighter, the hair on the back of his neck raising up.

Cat returned her gaze to his and repeated, “Arya, I mean. You must've known her well.”

Swallowing turned difficult as Gendry's tongue became drier than the sands of Dorne. He didn't want to talk about this, talk about _her._ Guilt built up within his chest, eating away at his stomach and lungs as he remembered the last time he saw Arya.

_I can be your family._

Those were the last words she'd ever said to him, and he'd thrown it back in her face.

_You wouldn't be my family, you'd be m’lady._

“Gendry?” Cat’s voice snapped him out of his memory.

Looking into her gray eyes, so fierce and so like hers, he blurted out, “Yeah, yes, I mean,” he tried to control his tongue. Taking a moment to clear his throat, he said again, “Yes, I knew her.”

“But,” Cat started slowly, her voice dropping to barely a whisper, “you don't think I'm her.”

_Stranger,_ Gendry thought as he tried to hide a wince, _Davos was going to kill him_. “What makes you think that?” He turned his gaze to the sea, trying to make himself look and sound casual. He couldn't let Cat know about the scheme. Not now, when they were so close to reaching Meereen. If Cat found out and decided not to go along with the plan, they'd be fucked.

Cat’s eyes burned into the side of his head as she responded, “You never call me Arya, for starters. And when you speak of the Starks you always say _her_ family, never _your_ family.” She watched him for a second longer and Gendry hoped that she didn’t notice the way his heart was thundering in his chest. “Davos seems to be convinced, so why aren't you?”

“I don't,” Gendry gave his head a rough shake, but still refused to meet her eyes, “I don't know what you mean.”

“Why don't you think I'm Arya?” she asked plainly, her tone hard and blunt. Her patience was dwindling, he could tell. She was growing tired of his sidestepping.

“Because,” he started, then stopped. His lips pulled down into a scowl and his fingers dug into the grooves of the wood rail. “Because she's dead. She was sent to the Twins. I--I was there when she left. No one survived that night.”

If they had just waited, if the Brotherhood had just waited one more day to ransom her . . . _No,_ Gendry told himself viciously, _waiting one more day wouldn't have changed anything_. And as much as he wanted it to be different, him going with her wouldn't have changed anything either.

“The Twins,” Cat repeated slowly. “You mean the Red Wedding? Where Robb and Catelyn Stark died?” Gendry nodded, too unsure of his voice to use it. Cat hummed, then said, “I think you're wrong.”

Gendry blinked down at the white, bubbly water splashing against the side of the ship. “What?” He asked, shaking his head as her words tried to sink in.

“I think you're wrong,” she repeated, her tone light and casual. She finally turned away from him not to look out at the sea, but at the crewmen going about their tasks. “Arya survived King's Landing, right?” Gendry frowned, but nodded. “Well,” Cat shrugged, “if she survived that, then why not the Red Wedding, too. After all, did you ever see her body?”

Looking down at his hands, Gendry saw that his knuckles had turned white. He'd been gripping the railing too hard, and with considerable effort he let go of it. “I never saw a body, no,” he admitted slowly, trying to figure out how to properly articulate his thoughts. “And I can see why you may think she survived, but . . . Arya’s dead.” It still hurt to say it, even after all these years, but in the end the truth always hurt less than false hope.

Once, he'd argued the same idea, the same theory that Arya had somehow survived, and when word had reached him that Arya Stark was to wed Ramsay Bolton, he'd all but gone mad in an attempt to get to her. To save her. The Brotherhood had helped him see reason, though, and had stopped him from essentially committing suicide, and reminded him that Arya--the _real_ Arya--would have sooner killed herself than marry that bastard. It was after that realization that Gendry accepted reality: Arya Stark was dead.

Briefly catching Cat’s eyes, he murmured, “I'm sorry.” He couldn't help but apologize, now that she knew the truth about Arya. The truth about herself. If she were to curse him to the seven hells, to leave them high and dry in Meereen, he wouldn't blame her.

Folding her arms over her chest, Cat’s face remained impassive, showing neither the anger or the betrayal Gendry had expected to see. Blinking, he'd anticipated some yelling, perhaps a slap or even a dagger thrown his way. But all she did was gnaw on her lower lip, and shift her gaze towards the sea.    

“If you truly think she's dead,” Cat turned her body towards his, her eyes clear and inquisitive, without a sign of anger or frustration, “then why go through all this? Why even look for her?”

Letting out a shaky breath, Gendry kept his eyes trained down onto his hands. He didn't know how to answer that, not really. He couldn't tell her about the money, but then again, that wasn't the entire reason he was doing this, either. Perhaps, he realized a bit slowly, perhaps he could substitute one truth for another.

“Because,” he began, his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched. This was proving harder than he thought, “Arya saved my life at least half a dozen times. I owe it to her, to the Starks, to at least try to bring her home.”

Cat stared at him, her face grim and searching, and Gendry knew in that moment that he was being weighed and measured.

Nodding to herself, Cat pushed off against the railing and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I have apparently been spelling Meereen wrong this whole time and no one told me!!!!! (but seriously, why the fourth e???) I'll get around to fixing that . . . eventually. It's not a high priority for me ngl
> 
> Second, thank you to everyone who commented or left a kudos!!!! I'm very bad at responding to some (read, all) of them, but trust me when I say I really value every one of them that come my way.
> 
> Third, originally this chapter was gonna be like 10k+ words, but then I was getting too overwhelmed and broke it into thirds so I could better focus on the story. Hopefully this means the next chapter will be up sooner than this one was (what can I say, life got in the way. And a slight viral infection, but whatever). But, I do want to finidh the next chapter of my book before getting to the next chapter of this fic, so I'm not sure when the next update will be. Hopefully soon, but yeah.
> 
> Lastly, if you haven't done so yet, please leave a comment or kudos! If you've already left a kudos, leave a comment this time! If you've already commented and want to again, SHWEET! I love every single one! :)


	6. Of Wolves and Wargs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cat closed her eyes, and dreamt.

_ Cat | The Narrow Sea _

 

Raindrops hailed down like a shower of arrows against the deck and sides of the ship, echoing throughout the cabin. Cat sat on her bed, a whetstone in one hand and her sword in the other. The storm outside made for terrible sleeping conditions, and when the ship rocked dangerously due to the uneven waves below them, Davos moaned with the beginning signs of seasickness.

“Are you all right?” Cat asked, pausing in her ministrations to look the old man over.

“Fine, fine,” he waved her off, then hiccuped as the ship took another turn. “Just envious is all,” he said quickly, his accent thickening. Cat hummed, putting her whetstone aside and giving Davos her full attention. If he wanted to talk through his nausea then she wasn't going to dissuade him.

“Look at him,” Davos jerked his chin towards where Gendry lay asleep on the floor. The only thing louder than the storm outside were his snores. “Could sleep through anything, that one.”

Raising a brow, Cat looked over to the snoring man. He was on his back with his mouth hanging open. A little trail of drool was trying to escape down the slope of his cheek, but with every intake of breath it was drawn back to its source. Huffing out a barely audible laugh, Cat felt her lips pull back into a small smile.

“That's a peculiar looking weapon you've got there,” Davos pointed to her sword. “Is it a type of dagger?”

Unable to hide the glare on her face, Cat looked down at the sword in her lap. “It's a sword,” she insisted. It was small, for sure, but it was still a sword.

“It must've been made for you when you were a child, then. The pommel’s quite small. How long have you had it?”

“For as long as I can remember,” Cat answered quietly, turning the sword over on her lap.

Davos hummed under his breath, “We've never asked you,” he started, then shook his head and began again, “how far back  _ can _ you remember?”

Flipping the blade over again, eyeing it for any particular spots that needed sharpening, Cat thought about Davos's question. “A few years, I think. It's,” she stopped, considering her words, “it’s hard to say.”

Studying at the House of Black and White had taken its toll. Cat supposed it's what she deserved, after years of training to become No One, she could remember nothing about who she truly was.

“Of course,” Davos cleared his throat, his face turning pink with discomfort. Cat gave her sword one more quick look over and then hid it away beneath her straw bed. “Oh, well, it's getting late. We'd better get some shut eye.” He stood up and stepped closer, intending to climb up to the top bunk.

The ship rocked sharply, and Davos barely caught his fall by grabbing onto the bed’s post. “Will you be alright?” Cat asked, raising a brow as she watched a green hue crawl across his skin.

“I’ll be fine, Miss Cat, I just, ah,” he looked up at the climb before him, “just need some rest is all.”

“Sleep well, then.” Cat settled into her mattress, pulling the thin blanket over her shoulders.

“Sleep well, Cat,” Davos sighed once he reached the top bunk. His breath was shallow but with every resting breath it deepened more and more.

Cat closed her eyes, and dreamt.

  
  


_ Gendry | The Narrow Sea _

  
  


Gendry slept blissfully on his spot on the floor. His mind was at peace, his body at rest, and he would have stayed that way until morning if it hadn't been for the leak dripping water right onto the center of his forehead. Above Gendry, there was a small crack in the boards of wood. The past several nights, this hadn't been an issue for the young man, since the weather had been tame and mild thus far. 

But through the night, the storm had gotten worse. The crew, knowing it'd be too dangerous to stay above deck, and too pointless to try and keep the ship on course against such raging winds, took cover in their cabins beneath and prayed to the gods of Ghis to make it through to see the sun rise.

Groaning, Gendry's eyes fluttered open and his hand instinctively shot up to wipe away the foreign liquid. “Seven Hells?” He muttered, looking up at the dark, damp wood.

Without fully awakening or standing up, Gendry shifted on the floor. Moving closer to the beds, the blue eyed man ran a hand down his face, making sure there was no residual moisture, and rolled onto his side, Cat’s empty bed just a few inches from his face.

Closing his eyes, Gendry pulled his thin blanket up over his head to drown out the sound of their door banging against the wall and sighed. Then it hit him. “Cat!”

Jolting awake, Gendry stared at the empty bed for a moment, then noticed that the door to their cabin was wide open. “Oh hells,” he swore. “Cat!”

Gendry threw off his blanket and ran out of the room, hissing when his bare feet hit the icy cold water splashing the floors of the hall.

His thoughts were a scattered mess.  _ Where was she? Why wasn't she in the cabin? Was she hurt? _ Question after question ran through his mind, each one more panicked than the last. 

Rain and sea water washed down the stairs, making Gendry slip and fall during his ascent. Grunting as his elbow slammed against the wood, knowing it'd leave a bruise, Gendry persevered and all but crawled his way up onto the deck.

Ice-cold rain, as cold as death and as sharp as Valyrian steel, pelted Gendry. Goose flesh rose all across his skin in reaction to the cold, the low drop in temperature making his insides clench and shake. With the rain and the mist from the waves, the Gendry could barely see his hand in front of his face, but he kept his eyes wide and open, looking for his missing companion.

_ “Cat!” _ He called out to no use. The storm was too loud, and thunder drowned out his voice.

A wave broke against the side of the ship, pushing Gendry to the ground and slamming him against the taffrail. Coughing, he felt the burn of seawater surge in his throat as he expelled it onto the deck.

Looking around wildly, Gendry knew that if he didn't find Cat soon, there was a good chance the both of them would be thrown overboard.

“Cat!” He yelled again, his voice barely audible this time. A burst of lightning illuminated the night, flashing through the sky, and he saw her.  _ “Cat!” _ He yelled again, pushing himself up to his feet and running to her.

_ What in the Seven Hells is she doing? _ Gendry’s mind yelled and he tried to run even faster.

At the end of the forecastle deck stood Cat. Her entire being was drenched, her clothes slick and sticking to her form, and her already dark hair looked pitch black with slender tendrils breaking free to blow about in the wind.

With measured, sure steps, Cat stepped onto the narrow spar of the bowspirit. If the sea had been calm, or if the weather hadn't been so catastrophic, Gendry may not have worried about Cat and her little balancing act at all. But with waves pushing the ship over this way and that, and with the rain and winds coming down like a curse from the gods themselves, Gendry knew it was only a matter of time before she plummeted into the ocean.

“Cat!” He cried again. He was much closer this time and yet she still didn't hear him. Yelling again would be no use, not in this weather. Gendry squared his shoulder and swallowed his nerves, if Cat wouldn't come to him, then he'd have to go to her. Climbing up and over the prow’s rail, Gendry attempted a balancing act of his own. Keeping his stance wide, Gendry lunged for Cat. Once his arms wrapped around her waist, Gendry kicked off against the bowspirit, using the same of his legs and the momentum to launch them backwards.

The railing of the forecastle deck never stood a chance against Gendry’s full weight, and with a groan and then a snap, it broke. Slammed between the forecastle deck and Cat’s body, the landing stole the air from Gendry's lungs.

Trying to regain his breath, Gendry, for the first time that night, was thankful for the cold rain. It numbed his back and soothed his skin.

“Cat,” he practically coughed out. She was still against his chest and Gendry worried that he’d hurt her. “Cat!” He called again, bringing his hand up to give her a small shake. 

When she didn't respond, Gendry forced himself into a sitting position. Cat rolled off him lifelessly, and the heart pumping in his chest turned colder than the storm and sea. “Cat!”

Turning her onto her back, Gendry’s breath stilled within his chest. He'd never seen anything like this before. The gray of her eyes had disappeared, leaving only milky white orbs in their wake.  _ What do I--what does this _ \--Gendry’s mind tried vainly to form a cohesive thought. He'd assumed, once he saw Cat walking on the deck, that she'd been sleepwalking. After all, who would willingly be out in this weather? But seeing her face, seeing her eyes, Gendry didn't know what to make of it.

“Cat. Cat!” He shook her again, this time with more force. This needed to stop and they needed to get back inside. Gendry could barely feel his fingers anymore, or the cold rain hitting against his face. If they didn't get dry and warm up soon, they wouldn't live to see another day.

Swallowing down a curse, Gendry felt the panic in his chest start to boil over.  Shaking her wasn’t working, he needed to try something else. Rearing his hand back, Gendry slapped Cat across her face.  Her head jerked to the side and she blinked, then blinked again. Sighing with relief when he saw her eyes return to their normal coloring, Gendry cupped the side of her face, “Cat?”

Shaking, Cat began to curl in on herself, “What?” She asked as her eyes darted this way and that. Hands drawn close to her chest, she tried to regain her bearings. “Gendry?” She asked, focusing on him. Her lips had turned deathly blue, like the storm had leeched the life out of them, slurring her speech. “What? I--I don't--”

“Shh, it's okay,” he told her, bringing her closer to his chest. “You're okay, Cat. Come on,” he scooped her up in his arms and stood. “Let's get you warm.”

  
  


_ Cat | The Narrow Sea  _

  
  


Of all the nights she's lived through, Cat’s had worse, but not by much. After waking up to find herself outside in the middle of a monsoon, with Gendry’s arms around her and a desperate glint in his eyes, Cat was brought below deck to their cabin and swaddled in every blanket they had. She'd been shaking like a leaf, and once Davos had woken up--unsurprisingly quickly given how loud Gendry had been--he ran off to find something warm for her to eat and drink. 

“What happened?” Davos had asked upon his return. Gendry tried to explain, but he didn't really know himself. They had both turned to stare at Cat, but she'd only given her head a small shake. Her lips had been chattering together too much for her to try to speak. 

Given her state, they had let their questions fizzle and die, though Cat knew they'd be reborn as soon as she was well.

So when her shakes and shivers finally stopped in the waking hours of the morning, along with the last trembles of the storm, and her two companions had finally fallen asleep, Cat had slipped out of their cabin. She needed time to think before the questions started.

Sitting high up in the crow's nest, staring out at the blue horizon, Cat tried to remember what happened last night. She'd had another dream, like all the others that had been plaguing her since Bolton’s attack. She'd been running, running, running . . . faster than she ever could while awake. Howls followed her every movement, and although she hadn't looked behind her, she'd known her pack was at her back. The dream had ended the way all the rest had: with the taste of blood in her mouth and a splitting headache.

Cat had never sleep walked before, though. The thought troubled her, what if it happened again? If the rain and cold hadn't been enough to wake her from her dream, then what was to stop her from walking overboard the next time she fell asleep?

“There you are!” Gendry's voice boomed from behind her, his head barely cresting the top of the crow’s nest . Startled, Cat had to physically stop her body from flinching. Distracted by her thoughts, she hadn't heard Gendry's arrival at all.

_ What would the Kindly Man say if he saw you now _ ? She thought harshly.

“We've been looking for you all morning,” Gendry grunted as he swung leg over the rail at a time, completely oblivious to Cat’s internal berating. He swung one leg over the rail and then the other before crouching down to sit next to her. Dark brows furrowing, he looked to his left and right, “Where's the lookout?”

Cat shrugged, “Getting some rest.” She told him to do so, anyway. She'd also told him she'd cover his post. Although he hadn't been in the crow's nest during the storm, from the looks of him Cat wouldn't have guessed it. In fact, he looked like he’d had a worse night than her.

“Thank you,” she suddenly blurted, her gray eyes sneaking a glance at Gendry. She hadn't thanked anyone in quite some time, besides the general pleasantries that came with exchanging goods or services at the Happy Port, but Cat had a suspicion that saving someone's life involved a bit more than just saying a few words.

“For saving my life, I mean,” Cat almost groaned. She wanted to kick herself. Of course he knew what she was thanking him for. He had been there! Shaking her head, she frowned and cast her eyes away from Gendry's form.

“Oh, ah--of course,” Gendry shifted this way and that, made momentarily uncomfortable by her thanks. “It was nothing.” His face reddened and he winced. “I mean--”

“I know what you mean.” Cat stifled a smile, enjoying the way Gendry stumbled over his words.  A tidal wave of emotions came upon her fast, all nostalgia and familiarity and confusion. She didn’t know where it all had come from, or why the feelings came at all.

Swallowing thickly, Cat needed a distraction.  Gendry had ventured all the way up into the crow’s nest for a reason, she reminded herself.  Might as well take the bull by the horns, she figured, and address the reason why. “I’m sure you’re wondering about last night,” she said slowly, watching Gendry’s reaction very closely.  “And what happened.”

Gendry’s face sobered, the tomato-like hue bleeding out from his cheeks almost immediately after his mind registered her words.  Blue eyes locked with gray, wide and innocent, and nodded, “Aye, you could say that . . .”

Cat’s jaw tightened, and she tried to think of something to say, of someway to explain the events of last night.  Before she could even begin, however, Gendry continued, “But,” he paused, taking a moment to wet his lips, “but I saw what happened once . . . once I woke you up.  You were,” he frowned, his brows furrowing as he tried to remember properly, “something wasn’t right. I knew it, I could see it. It was like you were possessed,” his eyes flickered away, and his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously.  

“Whatever it was that--that happened,” he said, looking down at his hands as he mindlessly picked away at the black soot that always seemed to linger beneath his nails.  Gendry cleared his throat, “Whatever it was, it’s none of my business. Not the way I figure, anyway. And if you want to tell me,” his eyes flickered up to meet her own for a moment, “then you’ll tell me.”  

He shrugged, and that seemed to be the end of it.  Cat looked at Gendry, her shock and awe written plainly on her face.  He didn’t want answers, or an explanation, so what did he want? “Then why are you here?”  She couldn’t stop herself from asking.

Blinking at her in surprise, Gendry looked at her--looked, and held her gaze this time--and with a baffled tone, answered, “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

As if cutting an artery, all the tension and apprehension bled out of Cat’s shoulders and spine.   _ That was it?  _  She thought.   _ That was all?  _  Cat couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked about her well-being.  Her vision turned hazy, and pressure built up behind her eyes. Cat had to turn away from Gendry, she needed to focus on her breathing and regain control of her body.   _ So what if he asked?   _ She told herself.   _ That was no excuse to get all weepy. _

“We’ll arrive at Meereen soon,” Gendry said suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck as he too shifted his gaze out towards the sea.  “Just a few more days now. Not more than a week.” He glanced her way and seemed relieved to see her without tears in her eyes. He sighed heavily and added, “The captain said the storm actually propelled us forward, closer to Slaver’s Bay.  That’s a good sign, eh?” He gave her a shy, hesitant smile. “Means things will go well when we meet with Prince Jon.”

Jon Targaryen, Cat thought as her chest tightened almost painfully.  Once upon a time he was Jon Snow, bastard son of Ned Stark and Arya’s half brother.  Her favorite brother, according to Gendry and Davos. Davos had told her they bore quite the resemblance, with their long faces, dark hair, and same colored eyes.  Yet whenever Cat tried to imagine him in her mind’s eye, she could conjure nothing but a hazy blur.

“Are you excited, then?”  Gendry asked, bringing Cat out of her thoughts.  His smile had turned tight, and his eyes lost their earnest gleam.  It reminded Cat that Gendry believed Arya dead, and Prince Jon’s attempt at finding her a hopeless endeavor.  

Inhaling deeply, Cat wondered if she could confide in this man.  She could lie and tell him yes, she was excited to meet her long lost brother or cousin or whoever he was.  It wouldn’t be hard, a slight tilt to the head, a shy, almost hesitant smile. Maybe she’d soften her gaze, or look out to the horizon wistfully.  It wouldn’t be hard at all, to act like the excited lost girl, hoping to find her family. But Cat hated lying, and looking at Gendry now, she realized with a knotted stomach, that’d she’d especially hate to lie to him.  

He’d saved her life, risking his own in that disaster of a storm. He’d been so kind to her, not pressing her for details and simply asking if she was alright.  And he’d been truthful with her, too, by expressing his thoughts on Arya’s death.

So, with more naked honesty than Cat had shown in quite some time, she answered, “No.  I’m not, actually.” Frowning, Gendry gave her his full, albeit confused, attention now.  Sighing, Cat explained, “For as long as I can remember, all I’ve wanted was to know who I am, who my family is.  It’s all I’ve ever dreamt about.” Closing her eyes, Cat tried to bring forth an image, a memory, something from the deep cavern of her mind that proved her theory true; that she belonged somewhere.  But, like every other time she had tried, she felt like she was only grasping at the air.

Opening her eyes, she continued, “If I am this princess,” she almost laughed, it sounded so absurd, “this Arya Stark . . . then that means my family is dead.”  The words felt numb on her tongue, like the after effects of some diluted poison. Biting down on her lower lip, Cat looked deep into Gendry’s eyes and confessed, “I don’t think I want to be Arya.”  

“Cat,” Gendry reached out tentatively and patted her shoulder, then kept his hand there.  “I--I never had a big family, not like Arya. I had my mother, and she died when I was young.” He stopped to swallow, it looked difficult.  “I know what it’s like to feel alone, to feel lost and hurt, but,” he shook his head and took a deep breath. “But it’s possible that Jon’s been just as alone, and just as hurt as you, and I know for a fact that if Arya were alive today that nothing would keep her from her family, even if Jon was the only member of the pack left.”

Frowning, Cat repeated, “Pack?”  Her mind reverberated off the word, sending little tremors down into that cavern of hidden memories.

“Ah, yeah,” rubbing the back of his neck, Gendry tried to turn a wince into a smile.  “It was something Arya used to always say. She’d call her family a pack. She even had a phrase that she’d whisper when she thought no one could hear:  _ the lone wolf dies but the pack survives _ .”

The words made Cat’s ears ring.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello there! Sorry this took so long to update, editing took longer than usual thanks to busy schedules and opposite time zones but here it is! Again, I want to finish the next chapter of the book I'm writing (which I am having major writer's block with) before starting this fic's next chapter, but hopefully it won't take too long...
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented and/or left a kudos. Comments are lovely and help keep the desire to write going!
> 
> The next chapter will be another Gendry/Cat related chapter but then the one after will include Cersei's POV and most likely Jon's (if all goes to plan), in case ya'll were wondering. Originally this chapter, the last, and the one to follow were supposed to be one long chapter, but then I felt that was too overwhelming so I broke it up (which is why it's taking us so long to get off the boat)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed and as always please leave a comment and let me know what you thought!


	7. One, Two, Three, and Suddenly . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos never should have let them dance.

_ Cat | Gulf of Grief _

 

Cat awoke with a gasp on her lips and sweat on her brow. She'd had another dream. Another dream where she shed her plain skin for fur and her lips for a snout and snarl. It hadn't been as intense as the one she'd had a few weeks ago, the one that had made her wander above deck during a monsoon, but it was just as disorienting. 

Swallowing thickly, Cat tried to call her racing heart. The room was too stifling, the air too thick. She needed to get out of the cabin. Releasing a shaky breath, Cat grabbed the dagger she kept beneath the straw mattress of her bed and headed for the door. 

Small oil lamps dimly illuminated the deck, giving off just enough light for Cat or any night sailor to see their surroundings. The cool night’s air caressed her skin as she stepped onto the deck, and Cat closed her eyes and took in a deep breath.  _ Why do these dreams keep happening? _ She wondered as she ambled towards the ship’s railing. Whatever the reason, they needed to stop. No matter how much she'd sleep, if she dreamed, then the next morning she'd wake up more exhausted than the night before. 

She wasn't sure how much longer she could take it.

“There you are.” 

Cat startled, spinning around to see Gendry's relieved face. Cat said nothing, but silently berated herself for dropping her guard and letting him sneak up on her. At her silence, Gendry cleared his throat uncomfortably.  Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “I woke up and you were gone, and . . .”A pink flush crawled over his cheeks.  “It’s just,” he tried again, “I mean, you know, after the last time, and--”

“And you thought I’d been possessed again,” Cat gave him a wry smile.  Gendry winced, but Cat shrugged it off, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to jump overboard.”

“Oh, right,” Gendry frowned.  His blue eyes darted across the deck, “I guess I’ll, um . . .  I’ll leave you be, then.”

He turned to leave, and Cat found herself saying, “No, wait.”  She wasn’t sure what caused her to stop him. Maybe it was the kindness he’d shown her these past few weeks on the way to Meereen.  Maybe it was the fact that he came to check up on her, when most wouldn’t have noticed she’d disappeared. Or maybe it was something in his eyes--a loneliness there that resonated within Cat more than she’d like to admit.

Shaking her head, Cat looked at Gendry, who was half turned away from her with both brows raised.  “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Ducking his head to hide a smile, Gendry sidled up next to her.  The dark haired man tilted his head up to the sky, “Couldn’t sleep?”

Cat hummed, thinking of how to answer.  It was one thing to ask for his company, but confiding in him about her dreams . . . every bit of her training told her to lie, to distract and get away from him and his questions.  But, Cat realized with a soft sigh, that wasn’t her life anymore.  She didn’t have to hide away anymore.  She could be her true, honest self.

So she was.  “I’ve been dreaming,” she told him, her words quiet and rushed.  “Ever since that day with Bolton.  Not--not the same dream,” she frowned, trying to remember details, “but almost.”  Catching Gendry’s concerned gaze, she said, “It makes sleeping difficult. Makes me restless. I've been . . . sleepwalking.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”  Gendry asked, his brows furrowing and his jaw clenching.  He was frustrated by the news.  Cat wondered, not for the first time, what he’d done before all this, to instill such a great desire to fix what was broken.  “We could’ve gotten you a tea or something to help.”

Lips twitching, Cat explained, “I’ve tried that already.  It doesn’t help.” 

“Still should’ve told us,” he grumbled.  Then he paused and went rigid, as if his mind just finished processing everything she'd said. “Wait, is that why you almost--” he stopped himself with a sharp intake of breath.

“Why I almost dove head first into the ocean the night of the storm?”  Cat finished for him.  “That night was . . . intense.”

Gendry snorted, “I’ll say.”  Lips thinning, he gave her a hard stare.  Blue eyes scrutinized every inch, every minute detail of her face.  Cat had to clench her fists to stop from squirming. Then, with a barely contained smile, he said, “Seven, you do look like shit.”

“Hey,” smacking his arm with the back of her hand, Cat found herself smiling.  “Watch it, or I’ll beat you so hard you'll wish you only look as bad as me.”

Gendry raised his hands, a chuckle struggling to escape his lips, “As m’lady commands.” 

“Do not call me m’lady,” Cat ordered, the words flowing easily from her mouth, as if she'd spoken the phrase a million times before.

The change in Gendry was as shocking as it was immediate. The smile slid off his face and the laughter died on his lips. Pain marred his expression. Pain, and sadness, too. 

Cat didn't understand what caused it, what made him shut down. She reached out a hand, “Gendry?”

“S’nothing,” he shook his head, deftly sidling out of reach. “I’m fine,” He flashed her a smile. One so fake and brittle it paralyzed Cat’s lungs. 

She could push it, push  _ him _ . Part of her wanted to, but then she thought back to that day on the crow’s nest and how he hadn't demanded anything from her.

“We should get some sleep,” Cat said quietly, nodding her head back towards the stairs that lead to their cabin. “It's late.”

Gendry nodded, his eyes still clouded and his jaw tight with frustration, though this time it was aimed inwards. 

When they reached their cabin, Davos was still asleep in his bunk, his snores so loud they made the bed shake. Cat slipped beneath the thin cover on her bed, her hand immediately reaching beneath her pillow, grabbing for the hilt of her sword. The familiar metal helped soothe something coiled tightly within her, but the room still felt too hot, too suffocating. The memory of her last dream was still too recent in her mind. The idea of falling asleep, of losing herself to another nightmare and waking up covered in sweat--or worse, waking up above deck again--filled Cat with fear and dread.

_ Fear cuts deeper than swords, _ Cat repeated the mantra in her head again and again, trying, and failing, to calm her racing heartbeat.

With back to Gendry and her eyes trained on the wall before her, Cat knew she'd be getting no sleep tonight.

Some time had passed--an hour, maybe two, from the amount of wax their cabin candle had burned through--and stretched out her legs before turning over on her straw mattress. Gendry blinked at her movements, at the sound of her blanket rustling along her body, and turned his head towards her. 

Blue eyes connected with gray, and Gendry whispered, “Still can't sleep?” Cat shook her head. “Me neither.”

Licking her lips, she confided, “I’m worried about what will happen . . . if I have another dream.” Gendry’s stare was long and hard as he heard her unspoken words. It wasn't just the dreams, she feared the possibility of sleep walking, of losing control to her unconscious. 

Turning onto his side, Gendry’s blue eyed gaze turned piercing as he promised, “I'll keep watch. You won't get past me.”

Heart stuttering in her chest, Cat’s lips flickered up into a smile, “Thanks, but you look dead on your feet,” her smile grew at his frown. “So barring you holding me down throughout the night, I don't think there's much chance of you being able to stop me if something happens.”

Eyes widening, Gendry averted his gaze as a deep flush painted across his cheeks. Clearing his throat, he tried, and failed, to look her in the eye. “We could try that,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I could hold you--hold you down, I mean. While we--while you sleep.” At Cat’s raised brow, he hurried on, “I won't try anything. I swear.”

“I know.” She'd gut him if he did, dream possession or no. Beyond that, though, she knew him. Enough, at least, to know he'd never lay a hand on her unless she asked. Blinking slowly, Cat shrugged, “Might as well try.”

Getting out of her bunk, her thin blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Cat walked over to where Gendry lay on the floor. Mouth slightly agape, the dark haired man scooted over on his makeshift bed so she'd have room to lie down. 

Resting with her back against his chest, Cat felt her eyes flutter shut. She hoped this idea of his worked. If not, they'd likely give Davos a heart attack in the morning for nothing. Tentatively, Gendry placed his arm over her waist. He didn't squeeze her or pull her flush against his chest, but the limb was heavy like an anchor. So long as he didn't move, Cat didn't think she'd be able to escape the grasp. Not easily, at least. 

“Gendry?” She whispered, her eyes still closed and her mind feeling heavy with sleep. He hummed in answer, his warm breath fanning against the back of her neck. “Thank you.”

 

_ Gendry | Gulf of Grief _

 

Gendry hadn't slept so soundly in a long time, perhaps ever. He woke up the same way he fell asleep, with Cat before him and his arm over her. It'd been a relief to wake up like that. It meant his idea had worked. Cat stayed put through the night and they were both able to catch up on some much needed rest. 

Rolling onto his back, Gendry stared up at the ceiling as memories of last night sprang forward in his mind.  _ Do not call me m’lady, _ Cat had said, the words and tone so familiar it made Gendry's head spin. It'd been his own fault, of course. If he hadn't goaded her, hadn't called her  _ m’lady _ in the first place, it wouldn't have ever happened. Rubbing a hand down his face, he felt like such a fool. 

Cat wasn't Arya, he reminded himself. Cat wasn't Arya because Arya was dead. Arya was dead because he'd been a craven.  Gendry let loose a shaky breath. They were similar, that was all. He needed to stop feeling like the Earth was swallowing him whole whenever the similarities popped up. 

Deciding he needed some time alone, some time to clear his thoughts and get his head on straight, he got up and headed towards the stern. 

Clouds had crawled their way across the sky, and the air was brisk. The temperature had slowly been dropping since they passed Valyria, though it was still nowhere near as cold as Winterfell. And after having dealt with the overwhelming heat near Lys, the strong, cool breeze was not unwelcome on his skin. 

They were nearing Slaver's Bay, Gendry realized with a bit of a start. Soon they'd be able to see Meereen. Maybe even see the Harpy atop the Great Pyramid. He wondered how long it would take to locate Prince Jon, and then how long it would take to meet with him. 

Shaking his head, Gendry recalled that they'd first have to get past Samwell Tarly. He'd be their first test. After that, then Gendry would worry about meeting the Dragon Prince. 

_ Seven Hells, _ he thought,  _ there'll be dragons in Meereen. Real, fire breathing dragons. _ It was enough to make him shudder. 

Inhaling deeply, Gendry decided he needed to do something. Something physical. Not for the first time since leaving Winterfell did Gendry wish he had a forge to work in, to help focus his thoughts. 

Walking towards the bow, Gendry kept his eyes peeled for Davos, hoping his friend would know of a task that'd keep his mind and hands busy. He'd just passed the shrouds when the sound of metal hitting metal reached his ears. Curious, he followed the noise to its source. 

Not until he reached the main deck did Gendry realize how much time he'd spent alone. In the back of his mind, he still expected Cat to be asleep in their cabin, and yet here she was before him now, dancing around the Bosun. No, not dancing, he realized as he noticed the blunted, practice sword in her hand. They were sparring. It'd never hold its own against a longsword, not blow for blow, but it wasn't meant for such fighting. These swords, thin lightweight things, were best for slicing an opponent quickly. And watching how fast Cat was with it, Gendry knew she'd fell most Westerosi knights before they could raise their blade.

The Bosun, a man perhaps a few years older than Gendry, with arms just as burly from years of seawork, swung widely left and right, trying to land a hit. With a feral grin on her face, Cat tapped her blunted blade against the Bosun's thrice. She didn't hit with force, with any muscle behind it. It was a tease, she was showing off her skill to her opponent and to the other crewmen that had gathered around to watch. 

The Bosun's face, already slick with sweat, turned red with frustration and he lunged. Cat's eyes glinted, as though she been waiting for him to make such a move, and with the grace of her namesake, she spun. Bending backwards, the Bosun's sword swiped just inches from where her neck had been just a moment before. Her knees buckled and she hit the deck floor with barely a muffled thump. Tossing her sword from her left hand to her right, Cat moved like lightning and struck. 

The Bosun hissed as her blade made contact with the tendons in his legs, bringing him to his own knees. Springing up with the fluidity Gendry had only see in bodies of water, Cat placed her blade against the large man’s throat, a victorious smile stretched across her face. 

Sighing, the Bosun tapped the dull blade twice, signalling his surrender. Cat released him and they shared a few quiet words. After handing her his blade, he left. A handful of his crewmates followed at his heels with laughter and taunts on their lips. 

“I've never seen someone fight like that,” Gendry said by way of greeting. Cat looked up at him, gray eyes bright and wild with adrenaline. 

He thought back to the fight with Bolton and his men. Cat had fought Ramsay and lived, had fought that bastard and  _ won _ . He'd never given much thought to it--didn't have time to before--but seeing in person just how fast she could be, how quick with her body and her blade, he could easily see how she'd been able to cut his throat. 

“Who taught you?” He asked, genuinely curious. 

A mummer’s smile replaced the victorious one on her lips as she answered, “No One.” Gendry raised a brow, but Cat merely chuckled and shook her head. “It's called water-dancing,” she told him instead, “it's the fighting style of Braavos.”

_ Water-dancing _ , Gendry repeated in his mind.  _ Why did that sound so familiar? _ Blinking the thought away, he looked down at the two blades in her hands. “Could you show me?”

Shrugging, Cat handed him the practice sword, “Sure, just don't start swinging this thing like a war hammer.”

Rolling his eyes, Gendry judged the blade’s weight, “I’m not  _ that _ dense, you know.”

Cat cocked her head to the side, “I didn't think you were dense at all.” Questions burned bright behind her gray eyes.

Ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck, Gendry mumbled, “S’just what some people would say. Stupid Gendry, bull-headed Gendry.” He flashed her a small grin, “Said in jest, mostly, but they were pretty spot on about the bull-headed part.”

“So people would call you stupid . . . as a joke?” Cat blinked at him. “That sounds very . . .”

“Stupid?” Gendry supplied, his smile growing wider.

Cat breathed out a laugh, “Yeah.” Looking down at the sword in her hand, she shook her head. “Right. Well, first you want to stand side-face.”

Gendry's mouth dried up. “Side-face?” He repeated.

Cat clarified, “Sideways.” She moved closer and placed her hands atop his hips, guiding him into the proper position. Gendry could barely feel her touch, though, as his mind was transported back to his days at Harrenhal. 

_ “Am I fighting someone?”   _

_ “You’re practicing for a fight.  You should practice right.” _

“Are you alright?”  Cat asked, bringing Gendry abruptly into the present.

Thankfully, before he had to figure out how to answer, Davos appeared, “What’s this you two are doing now?”  He eyed the blunted weapons with a scowl.  

“Water-dancing,” Cat answered easily, taking a step away from Gendry; her hands falling to her sides.

“Ah, good.”  Davos nodded, taking a step forward, “Perhaps we can find a musician amongst this crew and have a bit of music.”

Gendry blinked, his mind was still in a fog.  “Not that type of dancing,” Cat told Davos, a light smile on her face.  

“Oh, well no matter, you should still practice anyway.  Does now work, then?”

“Work for what?”  Gendry asked, his brows furrowing together.  He rubbed a hand down his face, he needed to get it together.

“Dancing, of course!” Davos gave him a concerned glance, but didn’t ask any questions.  Gendry heaved a sigh of relief.  Davos wouldn’t like any of his answers right now. 

Finally catching up to the conversation, Gendry frowned, “But Arya hated dancing.”  

“Aye, that may be true,” Davos nodded as he adjusted the leather glove on his left hand.  “But she’d still know how, even if she didn’t very much enjoy it.  She did have a Septa, after all.”

“Who she hid from,” Gendry countered.

“Who she  _ tried _ to hide from.  Trust me Gendry,” he nodded to Cat, “she needs to learn.” 

Deciding it'd be better not to argue, Gendry stepped away, planning on returning to the cabin. “Where do you think you're going?” Davos asked, one large, gray brow raised high. Gendry opened his mouth, but Davos continued before he could respond, “Cat can't dance without a partner.”

“What?” Gendry winced. “Ah, no, that's not a good--why can't  _ you _ dance with her?” This was a bad idea. The last time he danced was with Jeyne at the Crossroads Inn several years ago. He'd stepped on her toes so often she'd had a limp for days afterwards. 

“I can't very well instruct her if I can't see her, now can I?” Davos took Gendry by the shoulder and Cat by her arm and pulled the two together. He positioned them in the proper stance, with one of Gendry's hands on Cat’s waist, one of hers on his shoulder, and their free hands clasped together. Then, after making sure they were an appropriate distance apart, nodded and moved away.

Looking down at Cat’s feet, so small and so slender, he hoped they proved to be as durable at they were quick. “Sorry about this,” he muttered, too quiet for Davos to hear, “in advance.”

 

_ Cat | Slaver's Bay _

 

Cat raised her brows at Gendry's apology. What was he apologizing for? Before she could ask him about it, Davos called out, “One, two, three. One, two, three,” Gendry stiffened, his back going perfectly straight and his knees locking into place. 

Cat started moving, one step to the left, then backwards, then forwards. She'd danced a few times in Braavos, had to sometimes, to get close to a target, but their dances weren't as intimate as the Westerosi ones. She barely knew what she was doing, and gripped Gendry's hand a bit tighter. This dance was unfamiliar, and yet it wasn't. Her legs seemed to remember the steps well enough, like with every step she shook off more and more dust and cobwebs.

“One, two, och,” Davos stepped forward to stop them. “No, miss Cat, you don't lead. Let him.” Gendry winced, but stayed silent. Cat shrugged and they resumed their positions. As it turned out, Cat realized with a bit of chagrin, following was much harder to do than she'd assumed. 

“You're not so bad at this, you know,” Cat told him after several successful steps. They were getting into a rhythm now. Gendry’s muscles were loosening up, and with every step that didn't end with Cat crying out in pain, his confidence grew. 

Gendry huffed a laugh, “Tell that to Jeyne Heddle.” 

“Who?” 

“No one.” He shook his head, “Just someone who'd call me stupid for bringing her up.” 

Cat laughed, easy and carefree, “One of the many, huh?”

Gendry's jaw softened as he watched her. His breathing halted but his steps didn't. Cat watched with confused eyes as a light flush overcame his cheeks. “You have a nice laugh, Cat.”

“Oh?” Cat lips barely moved to form the sound, her eyes widening as she felt heat creep up her chest. For a moment, Davos’s counts bled away, as did the deck and the sea, and it was just her and Gendry. 

“You should laugh more.” His voice was so quiet, so close.

Confused, she said, just as quietly, “I just did.” 

“Right,” he swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “Of course,” he ducked and obscured his gaze.

“Thank you,” the words flooded out of Cat’s mouth. She didn't want him to hide away. Not because of her. “For the compliment.”

Tentatively, Gendry brought his blue eyes back to her gray, a small smile growing on his lips. 

Their steps slowed. They finished one more turn and then stopped. “I’m a little dizzy,” Gendry confessed a bit breathlessly. 

“Kind of light headed?” Cat asked, her hand still clasped within his. Gendry nodded once, “Me, too.”

“From the spinning,” Gendry’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Maybe we should stop.”

“We have stopped,” Cat whispered, her eyes trained solely on him.

“Land ho!” Someone cried, shattering the illusion Cat and Gendry had woven around themselves. Blinking, Cat regained control of her face and stepped away from Gendry, her hand still warm from his grasp. 

“Ah, good.” Davos nodded, taking a step closer to the ship’s railing, “the worst part of the journey is over then.” 

He waved Cat over. Slowly, Cat stepped closer, her eyes trained on the Great Pyramid’s peak up in the distance. She could just barely make out vines on the top level’s garden swaying in the breeze. At the very top, the bronze Harpy glinted in the sunlight. She'd heard of the Harpies of the cities of Slaver’s Bay, but she never thought she'd see one. It's impressive size, visible even these many miles away, was breathtaking. Cat thought its greatness may even rival the Titan of Braavos.

Davos hummed and inhaled deeply,“Welcome to Meereen, Miss Cat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Can you imagine how long this all would've been if I hadn't broken this chapter into three sperate ones??? Craziness. Anyway, as always please leave a comment or a kudos (or both)! Trust me, even if I don't respond to your comments right away, I always read them and they bring me a lot of joy :)
> 
> Next chapter will be Cersei's POV and possibly a Jon POV, but I may give him his own, stand-alone chapter. It'll depend on how long both POV's turn out.


	8. Going Topside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei comes to a drastic decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks k you all for your patience and comments! I got real sick at the end of July and then hit a bit of a writer's block (possibly because of the illness thing) but anyway I'm back and I hope you enjoy!

_ Cersei | King’s Landing _

  
Tucked away in the Small Council room, seated at the head of the long table and with her back to the wall, Cersei swept her eyes over her advisors. Behind her stood the headless corpse of Gregor Clegane. Reborn as Ser Robert Strong, Qyburn's greatest gift to her, he was stationed, like a true mountain, to strike fear and respect into the heart of her supposed allies. Said allies sat along the length of the table; her Master of Coin, Whispers, Law, Ships, and the Grand Maester, whose head was slowly dipping further and further towards the table as his old and feeble body slouched with sleep. And at the very end sat her Hand, her faithful Qyburn.

Turning her head away to keep from rolling her eyes, the Queen of Westeros listened to her Master of Coin with half of her attention.  _ Yes _ , she wanted to say.  _ Yes, I know the Rock is no longer producing anything but dirt. Yes, I know that we used all the gold obtained from the Tyrells to settle our debt with the Iron Bank. And yes _ , she wanted to sneer at the weak, pathetic man before her,  _ I know our coffers have all but been emptied. _

All of that was nothing new, and hardly worth mentioning at this point. It definitely wasn't worth listening to, Cersei decided. Her green eyes glanced over at her Master of Whispers. That's who she truly wished to hear from.

It'd been a fortnight since Cersei dispatched Ramsay Bolton on his mission to find the imposter Stark. Every day she waited with baited breath for her spymaster to tell her the news that her nightmare was over, that her curse was finally broken and the last Stark was dead.

The Master of Whispers politely looked away, and that one action, though silent, spoke volumes. The Queen’s upper lip twitched with barely contained fury. How much longer must she wait? Surely the deed must be done by now.

Qyburn beside her offered a sympathetic smile, but it was quickly wiped off his face once the door to the chambers opened and Jaime walked through.

Leaning forward in her seat, Cersei said, “You're late.” As Lord Commander of the Queensguard, Jaime held a position on the Small Council. As her brother and lover, Cersei expected him to be at her side. She narrowed her eyes. He'd best have a good reason for his tardiness.

“Apologies,” Jaime smiled, his eyes crinkling in a way that meant he was not sorry at all. “I was . . . detained. May we speak in private, your Grace?”

It was the title that alerted her that something was wrong. Jaime never used titles, not sincerely anyway. And never with her. Waving a hand, she ordered to the Small Council, “Leave us.”

One by one the crusty old lords left the chamber until the only people left in the room were Jaime, Ser Robert Strong, Qyburn, and herself. Jaime's eyes honed in on her Hand, his lips pursing with repressed words. “Cersei,” he began.

“Qyburn stays.” Whatever ill will Jaime may harbor against her Hand, it was irrelevant to her. Qyburn had proved himself a loyal servant time and time again. The man was practically the reason Cersei still held power. She relied on him, needed him, and if Jaime took issue with that dependency, then that was a problem he'd have to work out himself.  

Green eyes connected with green and for a moment, the room was silent. Finally, Jaime yielded. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath in through his nose and spoke, “I have news about Bolton.”

Smirking, Cersei stood up to fill herself a cup of wine, turning away to pick up a crystal decanter. “Oh? And how did the bastard fair?” Perhaps it was time to replace her Master of Whispers. If the man was less informed than Jaime, then what good was he?

“He's dead.”

Cersei froze, the decanter of wine still pouring out into her cup.

“And the girl?” Qyburn asked, his voice grim. Wine began to overflow and leak on to Cersei’s hand. Hissing, she knocked the cup over with some force.

“According to a knight, a Serious Cordin,” Jaime said slowly. Cersei fumed. She didn't care about the knight or his name! The Queen could feel her brother's eyes searing into her back, waiting to see how she'd react.

Jaime cleared his throat, finally continuing, “he claims he saw a girl resembling Arya board a ship in White Harbor. She was accompanied by two men.” He paused, and Cersei knew there was more.

Turning to face Jaime, she crossed her arms over her chest, “And? What else? Speak!”

“And,” Jaime nodded, his lips pulling down into a wince. “He recognized one of the men as Davos Seaworth.”

“Seaworth?” Cersei frowned. The name rung a bell but she couldn't quite place it.

“Stannis Baratheon’s Hand, if I'm not mistaken,” Qyburn said. He didn't look at his queen, but kept his gaze on the wooden table before him.

“And,” Jaime adjusted his golden hand. He also wasn't looking at her. “If rumors are to be believed, friend to Jon Targaryen.”

Snarling, Cersei demanded, “And how is this man still alive?” Her question was met with silence and she began to pace. How did they escape Bolton? Not only escape, but kill? Shaking her head, she asked, “How did a little girl and an old man kill the Bastard of Bolton?”

Fingers itching to run through the coarse strands of her wig, Cersei knew it had to be the curse. Only punishment from the gods could have waylaid her Bolton dog.

“There was . . . one other,” Jaime said, the muscle along his jaw twitching with tension. Cersei waited expectantly, impatiently. Her brother needed a lesson on how to properly give news.

“Yes, the third companion,” she tapped her fingers along her forearm. “What of him?”

“He claims the second man to be the ghost of Robert.” When Cersei merely raised a brow at him, he added, “The late king.”

Blood drained from the Queen’s face. “That’s not possible,” she whispered.  It wasn’t--it couldn’t be Robert. He was dead, had been so for over a decade.  Her green eyes flashed over to the form of Robert Strong.  _ If Gregor could be brought back _ , she thought as a great feeling of dread squirming its way up her throat,  _ then why couldn’t Robert Baratheon? _

“A bastard,” Qyburn helpfully suggested, “surely.”  Her Hand waited until she turned and locked eyes with him.  He nodded reassuringly, “One of the few who escaped your purge all those years ago, You Grace.  Nothing more.” Yet his eyes, too, drifted towards Strong.

“In summary,” she began quietly, her voice, for the first time since Jaime had walked through her door, calm and controlled, “a girl pretending to be Arya Stark, Davos Seaworth, and one of Robert’s bastards have been living in Winterfell for gods knows how long, and I’m only hearing about them now?”

Qyburn had the decency to look cowed, but Jaime merely looked away.  _ Useless _ !  Her mind hissed,  _ They were all useless!  _  Her Spymaster, her Hand, even her Lord Commander--none of them had come to her aid in this.  A slight she wouldn’t forget any time soon.

Frowning, Cersei turned back to look at Robert Strong.  He stood tall and fearsome, as he had ever since the day Qyburn sparked life back into his body.  He was her champion, her beast to be unleashed upon her enemies.  _ He _ had never failed her.

“I’ve grown tired of your shortcomings,” she decided.  Qyburn’s chair screeched against the floor as he shifted in his seat, and Jaime’s armor clanged as he stood to attention.  Arya Stark, Robert’s bastard, Davos Seaworth . . . they were all ghosts from her past, returned to haunt her present. Was it not enough, she thought dismally, that the curse take all her children?  Must it take the last few fragments of sanity she clung to?

_ No _ , she thought.  Her mouth ironed itself into a thin line.  I _ will not allow the gods to steal any more from me.  It is my turn to pillage, to rape, to take back all that I am owed.   _

“Cersei?” Jaime asked, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape.  He looked at her as if her head had come loose from her neck and fallen inwards into her body.

Cersei no longer cared how her brother saw her though.  She was calm, she was heartless, any last fires of anger had left her body, taking all other emotions with it in its flight.  “I feel a sudden onset of clarity, Jaime. I’ll have to kill her myself.” It was the only way to break the curse. She could see that now.

Jaime’s brow furrowed, he looked at her, then Qyburn, then back again, “You mean . . . physically? With your own two hands?” He eyed her suspiciously, his mouth drawing back into a thin line.

He doubted her, it was obvious. He didn't think she had it in her to end someone's life with her own prowess. It was, of course, one thing to order a person's death and something else entirely to complete the action, but if nothing else Cersei was determined. She'd end this Arya Stark, gladly.

The thought of her hands wrapped around the young girl's delicate throat, squeezing and squeezing until the light left her eyes  made the queen smile. Her lips turned coy and sweet, it was a look that used to lure men into her bed. Now she turned it towards her champion, “If you want something done right,” she mused under her breath.  Looking at her Hand over her shoulder, she ordered, “Prepare a ship for Meereen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I know it's was fast, but it is what it is. Next chapter is Jon's POV which I am very excited to write!


	9. Closing the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Targaryen had endured more than most, but he could no longer endure this.

_ Jon | Meereen _

 

At the very top of the Great Pyramid, within the confines of his apartment, Jon Targaryen--formerly Snow--watched as a tragedy played out before him.

“Sansa and I were so excited for King Robert’s visit,” the girl claiming to be his sister was telling him. “We spent all our spare time with Septa Mordane, making sure all our courtesies were prepared.”

Jon held back a grimace, but only just. This girl, whoever she was, passed for Arya well enough with her classic Northern features. The fact that she knew the old Septa's name was impressive as well. In fact, she'd named everyone from Winterfell from Jory to Mikken, Hodor to Maester Luwin. She'd obviously lived in Winterfell, before. Perhaps as a scullery maid, or perhaps in the village, somewhere close enough to know names, faces, but not close enough to know the true details.

“And then,” she continued, a large, wide smile on her face that took her Arya-like features and threw the similarities out the window. Arya had no dimples.

She played with her fingers, tapping the index of one hand against the digits on the other. “I curtseyed before the King, just after Sansa, and--”

“The family had bowed all at once when King Robert arrived,” Jon interrupted, tired of this charade.  _ Don't you have anything better to do?  _ He wanted to ask, but he turned his head away instead, knowing that'd be cruel. Life in Winterfell was harsh, even more so now that Winter had descended upon the continent. This girl was just trying to survive.

“Oh dear,” Sam said, picking up immediately on Jon’s darkening mood. “I believe it's time for you to go, miss.” He gently led her out of the apartment, where a pair of Unsullied guards would escort her out of the pyramid. “Goodbye,” Sam said awkwardly before closing the door on her.

Jon stood and walked over to his desk, slowly rifling through the letters that had been sent to him. They were all from Arya. Or, rather, girls claiming to be Arya.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Sam sighed, moving around to tidy up the already immaculately clean room; a habit of his whenever he was anxious, which was more often than not.  “I thought--I really thought she was the one.” He shook his head, plumping the pillows on one of the couches. “But I suppose I thought the same about all the others as well.”

Jon was only listening with half an ear as he skimmed over scraps of parchment.  One author started the letter,  _ My dearest cousin _ .  Another,  _ Jon Targaryen _ \--neither were greetings Arya would ever think to write.  Then there were the ones that went along the lines of,  _ I have somehow found myself in Skagos, and wish to be reunited with you as quickly as possible.  If you would just send some gold my way, I could surely . . .  _ These letters always left a sour taste in his mouth.  Skagos, Braavos, Lys--Aryas popped up everywhere, asking for money blatantly, or through the gaining of a title.

When he’d sent out word that he’d pay a king’s ransom for his sister’s safe return, Jon knew he’d come across a few imposters and charlatans, all just trying to take advantage of his hope.  But it’d been over a year now, and he still had nothing to show for it. Not even Varys, Daenerys’ spymaster, could find a whisper or a word about Arya. Tyrion, too, who had been in the Red Keep not long after his lord father’s beheading, knew nothing about the youngest Stark daughter.  

“She knew the names of everyone in the castle,” Sam was still saying, fiddling with the drapes now.  “The direwolves, too.” He hummed under his breath, coming to some sort of internal conclusion, “I won’t be fooled again, Jon.  I swear it. I’ll ask harder questions next time--”

“No.”  Jon’s breath caught in his throat and his hand trembled as it picked up one of the letters.  “No more, Sam. I can’t--I can’t take it anymore.” Tightening his grip, Jon crushed the piece of parchment into the palm of his hand.

“What?”  Sam asked, his voice closer than it was just a moment ago.  Jon looked up, Sam had moved towards him, his face pinched with worry.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” closing his eyes, Jon tried to smother the burn he felt behind his eyelids.  “I’m calling an end to the search.”

“But Jon,” Sam protested, “just because we haven’t found her yet doesn’t mean we won’t!  Why,” he breathed out an uncomfortable, anxious laugh, “just because this time it wasn’t Arya doesn’t mean--”

“This girl wasn’t Arya, the last girl wasn’t Arya--and the ten before them, too!”  Jon spat out a harsh laugh of his own, throwing the destroyed note he still held back onto his desk.  “Neither are any of them! They all just want the money,” his chest tightened and it felt like something was holding onto his heart with an iron clad fist.  “And I just want my sister.”

“And we’ll find her, Jon!  I promise you we will, but you have to keep faith!”

Pushing his dark curls from his face, Jon began to pace.  He felt very much like Ghost after being kept inside for too long.  Sam often spoke of faith, of hope. Jon knew Sam loved him like a brother, as Jon did him, and knew Sam wanted to see him happy. And finding Arya would make the dragon prince happier than he’d been in years.  But the search, with its false hopes and fallouts, was killing him.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he shook his head and turned to retire to his bedchamber.  All his energy left him as he said, “No more.”

Closing the door behind him, Jon laid down and released a self-deflating sigh.  He meant what he said to Sam, he’d see no more girls pretending to be Arya Stark.  Thanks to his brothers in the Night’s Watch, his heart had taken its fair share of abuse, but compared to what he was going through with the multiple imposters, those stabs felt like paper cuts.

Jon rolled over onto his back and rubbed a hand over his chest, just the silky fabric of his tunic separating his palm from the many scars covering his sternum. Turning his head to look at a window, its clouded glass letting in pure, white light, Jon tried to remember back to the day he started his search for his sister; tried to remember the hope and excitement he’d once felt.

It was because of Tyrion that he even started looking.  When he’d first been brought here by Sam and Melisandre, half dead and still bleeding, Jon had been surprised to see the youngest Lannister.  Surprised, but relieved. Although they’d only known each other for a few short months, Tyrion had become a good and honest friend. Seeing him stand beside Daenerys--the Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains, a practical myth he’d only heard whispers of--had eased a great deal of tension from the former Commander of the Night’s Watch’s shoulders.

Not long after the initial meeting--there’d been a lot to discuss--Tyrion sought him out, words of condolences on his tongue.  The first words out of Jon’s mouth, in response, had been, “What happened to Arya?”

He knew what had happened to his father-- _ uncle, _ his mind chastised.  Knew what befell Lady Catelyn and Robb, Bran and Rickon, and then finally Sansa.  News of all the Starks had eventually reached his ears at the Wall. All the Starks, save for Arya.  

And Tyrion--Tyrion was a  _ Lannister _ .  He was at the Red Keep not long after Robb declared himself King in the North, surely, Jon had thought,  _ surely _ he’d know what happened to her.  But, after digesting the shock of the question, Tyrion looked at him with, his mismatched eyes large and sad,and said, “I don’t know.”

He then explained that by the time he had arrived in King’s Landing, Arya was nowhere to be found.  Jaime had confided in him, apparently, that the youngest Stark girl had slipped through their fingers and they had no idea what had happened to her.  It was obvious that Tyrion had assumed, like most had, that Arya was dead, but Jon had immediately thought otherwise.

Arya was resourceful, a fighter, and very good at sneaking away undetected.  She hadn’t been called ‘Arya Underfoot’ for nothing after all. She had survived King’s Landing, Jon knew it with every fiber of his being.  So he decided to find her.

It hadn’t been easy, convincing Daenerys to help him.  Two years ago, she hadn’t known him from a hole in the ground and had only barely accepted him as her nephew thanks to whatever Melisandre had shown the queen in her fire.  Even after accepting Jon into her life, she wasn’t interested in banking his search for Arya. She had an empire to rule, to expand; people to see to and dragons to control, Daenerys had told him dismissively.  It wasn’t until Varys had whispered in her ear a few days later that she changed her mind.

Jon didn’t know what Varys had said, not even to this day.  He had a guess, of course. If Arya was alive, then she was the true heir of Winterfell, of Robb’s kingdom.  The North would rally behind her, and if Arya supported Daenerys’ claim to the Iron Throne, then it would make her eventual invasion that much easier.

The why didn’t matter to him, though, not when the possibility of reuniting with his sister was on the table.  And it hardly mattered now, anyway, as the last two remaining Targaryens had grown closer these past several years. Close enough to call each other family and mean it, and for Daenerys to take true interest.

A knock came from the door, and with a blink, Jon realized his room had darkened considerably.  Sitting up, Jon ran a hand through his hair and called, “Enter.”

The door opened slowly, and Daenerys peered in, “Jon?  Are you alright?” She saw him on the bed and stepped through the threshold.

Huffing out a laugh, Jon shook his head, “Sam told you, then?”

Smiling softly, Daenerys sat down next to him on the bed and took his hand.  “Are you sure you want to stop looking? We can double the reward, if you’d like.  Perhaps that would help?”

“I think,” Jon started, squeezing Daenerys’ hand with appreciation, “that might make matters worse.”  He could only imagine how many more imposters would try their hand if Daenerys increased the prize money.  

“Well,” she said wryly, “we could always feed the pretenders to my dragons.  That’ll thin the flock, wouldn’t you say?”

Lips flashing up into a brief smile, Jon gave his aunt’s hand another squeeze, “I’m sure Varys would take that decree well.”

Shrugging, Daenerys said, “For years and years my advisors told me ‘you have dragons, use them’.” She made her voice deep and gravelly, and Jon knew immediately who she was impersonating.  Jorah Mormont would not have been as amused. “But the moment I start using them?” Daenerys laughed humorlessly, “They act as if I’ve gone mad.”

The room was silent for a moment, then, “Are you sure?”  Daenerys asked, her purple eyes staring into his gray ones, “I know how . . . difficult this search has been for you, but Jon,” her brows furrowed with concern.  “Arya’s your family, she’s . . .” the queen shook her head, unable to find the words to continue.

Jon’s breath caught in his throat.  Arya was always his favorite, his constant companion, his vehement defender during their time in Winterfell.  If there was even a chance that she was alive . . . but no, he thought brutally with a hard shake of his head.  If there was a chance, then he would’ve found her by now. Arya had survived King’s Landing, he could feel that down in his core, but after that, well . . . the world was a harsh and unforgiving place.  Jon was quite intimate with that fact.

Looking back at his aunt, he gave her a subdued smile, “You’re my family,” he said.   _ The only family I’ve got left _ , went unsaid.

Daenerys sighed, her smile mirroring his own, “The last of the Targaryens, you and I.”  Her smile turned teasing and she nudged her knee with her own, “Hopefully not for long, though.”

Exaggerating a grimace, Jon couldn’t help but laugh.  It had been a running joke between the two of them, that Jon have a child. It all started when Daenerys named Jon her heir.  Even though he was older than her and was unlikely to ever sit on the Iron Throne--gods, he hoped not--he, unlike his aunt, was able to continue their lineage.  Through him would come the next true Targaryen heir.

Her advisors, Varys, Jorah, even Tyrion, had immediately started expressing their opinions on the matter.  They wanted Jon to find a wife--preferably one from a noble family--and 'fulfil his duties’, as they liked to put it.

Luckily for Jon, Daenerys didn't feel the same as the men whispering in her ears. From early on she told him that she would not pressure him into a marriage he did not want. She had said it with a steely voice and an unsettlingly calm face, and Jon had been immediately reminded that she had twice been forced to wed for the benefit of others.

Bringing her hand up to his mouth to kiss, Jon realized that since he would no longer be looking for Arya, he'd have a lot more time on his hands.

“I'll give the matter some thought. Perhaps during the opening night at the Opera?”

Daenerys’ brows rose high. She obviously hadn't been expecting that sort of response. Pursing her lips, she said, “If that's what you want.”

Want wasn't the right word, Jon thought. What he  _ wanted _ was his sister returned to his side. But after today, what he  _ needed _ was to let go of the past and move on, to make a future.

Unsure of how to properly express that thought to his aunt, Jon merely nodded, “It is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient! This chapter had been written a little while ago, but what with me starting school, my friend/editor teaching, and throw in a minor surgery, well, we got a little behind in the fanfic department.
> 
> But here it is! I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you thought of Jon, he became a bit more dramatic than I had expected but it felt right. 
> 
> Next chapter is going to be an Arya/Gendry POV chapter, where they meet Sam and see all that Meereen has to offer. Hopefully I'll get that written this coming week or so, as the surgery has left me with some free time. But then it has to go through editing. (If you want an update on its editing status feel free to send me a msg on Tumblr, my name is scribomaniac there too)
> 
> Please leave a comment as I always read them and they make me ever so very happy!!


	10. Crossing a Bridge

_ Cat | Meereen _

 

Meereen was massive. Cat had heard of its great size before, in Braavos, that it was larger than Astapor and Yunkai put together, but seeing it for herself was breathtaking. Its brick walls were all painted a different color. One was pink and blue, the next green and red, then yellow and orange further down. All throughout the city were explosions of colors. Their many shades and combinations an exciting sight to see. 

Cat, Gendry, and Davos walked through the market on the way to find housing, and Cat listened as vendors called out their wares and valuables. On the right a woman with heavy lidded eyes beckoned men in for a night, on the left a man called out about his wild mint and lady's lace. The smell of meat cooking wanted through Cat's nose and she turned her head to see an elderly woman adding bits of vegetables into a large stewing pot.

When Cat had heard the news that the Dragon Queen had overthrown the Meereen nobility and freed all their slaves, she'd been suspicious at first. Surely, she had thought, the revolution wouldn't last, but walking through the crowd of what was most likely a group of freed slaves, Cat had to admit she had been wrong. Besides a few setbacks--word about the re-opening of the fighting pits and indentured servitude had reached the shores of Braavos--the city seemed to be doing well under Daenerys Targaryen's rule; thriving, even.

And then there, at the center of the city, was the Great Pyramid. Painted a deep green and bright yellow, the Great Pyramid was twice the size of any other in the city. It loomed over them impressively, and no matter how far back Cat craned her neck, she couldn’t find its top.

It was an appropriate home for royalty.  For Queen Daenerys and her council. And, Cat thought with a gulp, Jon Targaryen.

_ No _ , a sleepy voice in her mind reminded, making her head feel as if it were filled with fog,  _ Jon Snow. Your brother. _

Shaking her head--brother, cousin, Targaryen or Snow--Cat didn't rightly care what names or titles he went by, so long as he knew who she was. He was the only link to her family, her past.

“Right,” Davos said suddenly, bringing them all to a stop. Squinting up and down the street, he stroked his beard thoughtfully before nodding, “the inn we're staying at tonight should be just down that road. It's painted yellow and blue, that's what the captain said, anyway. You two go on ahead and get a couple of rooms,” he handed a small bag of coins to Gendry, who took it with clumsy hands, “I'll meet you there shortly.”

“And where are you going?” Gendry asked, his eyes wide with surprise and his mouth dropping open a bit. Cat had to bite down on a smile, she secretly loved it when Gendry made that face. The dark haired man would most likely choke on embarrassment if she told him though.

“I’m off to buy us some new clothes. Can't go meeting royalty in these rags now can we?”

Davos was off before either Cat or Gendry could say anything. Not that Cat would--she agreed with him, in fact--but Gendry, stubborn as ever, looked ready to argue. “Come on,” Cat said, tugging on his arm and gently leading him in the direction Davos had pointed them earlier. “Maybe this inn has a bath, wouldn't that be nice?”

Gendry stayed quiet, his eyes locked on where Cat's hand gripped his forearm. Cat's hand flinched and she almost pulled away, as she would have done a month ago, or to anyone else now, even. But Gendry's arm was warm beneath her touch, and when his blue eyes flickered up to meet her grey, her breath caught.

Gendry looked like he'd stopped breathing. His lips were parted--just a bit, just enough--and Cat suddenly had the fierce desire to know what they tasted like. Her heart quickened and her nerves felt as if they'd been hit with a bolt of lightning. The grip she had on him tightened ever so slightly as she began to stretch up onto her toes.

Gods, he was so tall, but she was so close. For a moment Cat thought Gendry would pull away, shake her off, but then his eyelids grew heavy and he bent down to meet her--

“What's this then?” Davos's voice crashed through their thoughts like a wild boar in a wood.

Gendry pulled back as if to avoid scalding water, and Cat, through years of intense training, was able to keep her balance and not fall straight on to her face. “N--nothing,” Gendry claimed, though his face was turning pinker than the brick behind him.

“Right,” Davos said, his voice clipped and suspicious. His dark eyes stared a hole into Gendry's head as he continued, “Why don't you head along to the inn, Miss Cat? I'll be needing a word with Gendry.”

Cat pursued her lips, knowing something was wrong. Whatever Davos had to say to him--about her, she knew--he could say in front of her as well.

“Oh, right,” Gendry nodded slowly, trying to pretend he knew what Davos wanted from him.  After having spent weeks with him on a ship, though, Cat knew his tells. Knew that slight spike in pitch meant he was confused by the sudden confrontation.

Still, Gendry kept up the charade that all was well and looked back to Cat, joking, “You should really get to that bath. The smell of you is starting to make my eyes water.”

Giving Davos one last glance, Cat knew they wouldn’t say a word until she left.  She’d leave the matter alone, for now. Not one to let a taunt slide, though, Cat stuck her tongue out at Gendry childishly before walking away. 

 

 

_ Gendry | Meereen  _

 

“You want to tell me what in the Seven Hells that was all about?” Davos asked as soon as Cat was out of hearing range. 

Gendry winced, Davos's accent was thick and rough now that it was just the two of them, his words blurring together with subdued rage and confusion. Only their many years together allowed Gendry to understand his rich brogue.  Still, he'd never seen his friend this angry. Davos's face was turning a blotchy red, and his lower jaw pushed outwards as he gnashed his teeth together.

“Lad,” Davos continued without waiting for Gendry's response, “I know you cared for the princess greatly, and Cat looks a great deal like her, but--”

Jaw dropping, Gendry sputtered, “I don’t--that’s not--I mean, she--” shaking his head, he straightened his tongue, “I was never in love with Arya.” It was true. He and Arya had formed a bond, yes, but their circumstances hadn't allowed any tenderness, much less love. Besides, she'd only been two and ten.

“Cat may look like Arya,” Gendry said, his hands curling into fists, “she may act like her, but she isn't Arya.” No matter how many similarities they shared between them, no matter how often Cat reminded him of his lost friend, none of it was true. Coincidences, that was all it had been.

“Then do you want to tell my why you two were looking like something straight out of a song?” Davos asked, one bushy gray brow quirked upwards.

Turning his head away, Gendry watched disinterestedly as a woman wearing a red tokar bat her eyelashes at him. He wasn't sure when it started, this thing between him and Cat. Sometime after she'd begun teaching him how to water dance, he'd wager. After that first day their eyes found each other more and more, secret smiles were shared often and usually followed by laughter. Excuses to touch each other were made; like picking off a loose strand of cloth from a shoulder, the brushing of fingers as they walked side by side along the deck, tucking hair behind ears.

And just now . . . Gendry wasn't sure what had happened, or what almost happened. What if Davos hadn't interrupted? Would Cat have kissed him? Would he have wanted her to?

_ Yes _ , a voice in the back of his head said,  _ gods, yes.  _ It was a troubling thought, and a dangerous one, too.

Looking back at his friend, Gendry sighed and shook his head, completely lost for words. How could he explain what was happening when he himself barely understood it. All Gendry knew was that Cat made him feel alive, more so than he'd felt since the day he could no longer deny Arya's death.

Exhaling sharply from his nostrils, Davos frowned, but his eyes softened. “If this were any other girl, Gendry, I'd be over the moon for you. But as it stands, you'd be a fool to try anything, and I'd be a fool to let you.”

Stroking his beard, Davos shook his head, “Real or not, that girl is bound for royal life, and we . . . well, we are not.” He stepped closer, the look in his eyes so sincere it made Gendry's heart plummet into his stomach. “Promise me you won't pursue this, Gendry--won't pursue her.”

Gendry forced himself not to look away. He'd been so happy, so blissfully, stupidly happy just a few minutes ago. Davos was right though, Gendry knew he was right. Still, he thought as he nodded his head to Davos, it would have been nice to have kissed her, just the once, just to have known how it felt.

  
  


_ Cat | Meereen  _

 

Standing between Davos and Gendry at the Great Pyramid, Cat could feel her heart beating against her chest as she stared up. From this angle she couldn’t see the Harpy at the top, the structure simply disappeared high above the clouds.  She’d be meeting Samwell Tarly soon, and then Jon. She felt as if she’d swallowed a dozen butterflies whole and they were still flying about within her stomach. She’d never been so nervous in her life, not even when she’d left the safety of the House of Black and White.  

Cat had taken a bath at their inn earlier. It’d been so long since her last that she hadn’t even put up a fight when one of the serving girls came up to help clean her hair. A fresh tunic and pair of breeches had been placed on her bed, courtesy of Davos, and now, with all the pressure and the heat making her perspire, she worried she'd sweat through the light linen.

“Well, no time like the present,” Davos said more to himself than to his companions. Then he led them into the pyramid where a guard was quickly upon them. After a strange conversation in Low Valyrian--the Meereenese’s dialect conflicting somewhat with Cat’s Braavosi one--they were quickly led further into the building.

They were ushered up several staircases and into a small, but finely decorated sitting room.  It was a lovely room, with its silk drapes, intricately carved tables, and vast amount of decorative books taking up most the space, but its level within the pyramid told Cat this was not the home of an exceptionally important person.  

A door on the far end of the room--one most likely leading to the bed chamber--opened and a tall, plump man wearing what looked to be a hybrid between a tokar and the robe of a maester walked in.  Cat quirked a brow, finding the garment highly amusing. Tokars were a sign of wealth and power and were terribly inconvenient for anyone who needed to get work done. By keeping the silk material and adding the freedom of a maester’s robe, this man was stating to the world that he had enough money not to work, but liked to anyway.  Cat found it ingenious.

“Davos!”  The man--Samwell Tarly, Cat thought, it had to be--smiled brightly and quickly crossed the room to give the other man a hug.  “It’s so good to see you again!” He broke away and gave a breathy laugh, “Jon will be so pleased that you’re here. Seeing an old face is exactly what he needs right now.”

“Don’t know what you mean by old,” Davos said dryly, but his lips twitched upwards with amusement.

Cat glanced at Gendry, but he merely shrugged and looked away from her.  Cat narrowed her eyes. Gendry had been acting strangely ever since he and Davos returned from the market, as if he was afraid to look at her.  She chalked it up to nerves and returned her attention to Davos and Sam.

“Can I get you anything?  Tea, maybe? Something to eat?”  Sam asked, then turned to Cat and Gendry, “And your friends, too, of course,” his eyes landed on Cat and he stopped.  Brows raising, Sam swallowed before looking back at his friend. “Davos,” he cleared his throat, “not to be rude, but, well, why are you here?”

“Ah, of course,” Davos nodded, then extended a hand to Cat to bring her forward, “May I present her highness, the Princess Arya Stark.”  Sam stared into Cat’s eyes intently, his lips puckering together in concentration. Cat stared back, her jaw clenching defensively. “My friend, Gendry here, and I found her while in the North, and brought her here immediately.”

Cat broke her gaze with Samwell to look at Davos.  He hadn’t lied and yet . . . Forcefully, she returned her attention to Samwell.  She was close--she was so close to finding out the truth about herself. All she had to do was answer Samwell’s questions and pretend to be Arya.  She’d just have to pretend one more time--put on a mask one more time--and then never again. Then all the lies and masks would be put to rest.

“She does look like Arya,” Samwell said, turning his head this way and that to get a better look at her.  He pursued his lips so hard they all but disappeared. Finally he came to a decision and nodded, “Where are my manners?”  He stepped aside and gestured to the chairs and couch, “Please take a seat. I’ll order us some tea.” Pulling on a long silken rope in the corner of the room, Samwell then took a seat. “Let’s get started, then, shall we?”  

Cat nodded and took a seat on the couch, frowning when she found something poking at her from between the cushions.  Digging it out, she found a small wooden carving of a dragon. “Oh my,” Samwell shot up and took the toy from her with shaky hands, “Sorry about that.  My son tends to hide his toys in the strangest places.”

“Little Sam and Gilly are here then, too?”  Davos asked as he tried to get situated in his seat.  He kept trying to lean back, but the chair was apparently not built for comfort.

“Oh yes,”  Samwell said, putting the toy away and then answering the door--it was a servant, answering his earlier call.  “I made sure to go back and retrieve them from my father’s as soon as Jon was safe. Now,” he gave Cat a small smile, “Let’s begin, where were you born?”

Cat inhaled a steady breath and remembered her training for the House of Black and White as she answered, “In Winterfell Castle.”

“Correct.”

 

_ Gendry | Meereen _

 

Sam’s questions continued for what felt like hours, barely breaking long enough to wet his tongue with the tea he’d ordered hours ago.  Cat was perfect, answering everything and anything. It was a good thing Davos had been so thorough, as Sam had even asked her what nicknames she used to be called, who her direwolf had been named after, even the name of the captain of her father’s guard.

After the second hour it all became too much for Gendry.  He could no longer just sit there, sipping on tea or nibbling on pastries while Cat was being interrogated, and had begun pacing behind the couch.  Davos had glared at him for the first five minutes, but as neither Sam nor Arya paid him any mind, he’d let Gendry be.

They were so close--so close--to ending all this, to getting their money and living a better life; one where he didn’t have to look over his shoulder every other moment in fear of someone discovering him.  One without an endless Winter, or a mad queen. One where he could possibly lay down some roots, find a woman and start a family. He could see them now, with dark hair and wolfish grins.

Feeling lightheaded, Gendry leaned back against a pillar and for himself to take four long, lung filling breaths.

“Now,” Sam said, and Gendry’s focus snapped to attention, “you might find this question impertinent, but how did you escape King’s Landing?”

Covering his face with his hand, Gendry felt like he’d get sick from all the hope building within his stomach.  His heart thumped rapidly within his chest; he hadn’t covered this in their lessons--Cat didn’t know! She’d answer wrong and Sam would know she was a fake, and--

“There was a tunnel,” Cat said slowly, her head tilting to the side in thought.  “Filled with the bones of giant birds, or lizards, maybe . . . and then an old crow found me and there were others, too, and . . . something about singing steel?” Cat shook her head, laughing lightly under her breath, “I’m sorry--bones and steel--that’s crazy.”

Everything around Gendry dulled away.  He could vaguely hear Davos talking now, but none of that mattered.  A horde of Dothraki could attack them right now and he wouldn’t notice.  The ghost of his dead father could appear before him and he wouldn’t bat an eye.  The entire world could be set ablaze and he wouldn’t feel the burn. All of this and more could happen and Gendry would notice none of it because the only thing that mattered was what Cat just said.  

No, not Cat--

Arya.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you did, please leave a comment! I'm participating in NaNoWriMo this year so I'm not sure when I'll have time to write for this fic in the next few weeks. I'll do my best, but just be aware that the next update might not be until December.


	11. Now and Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! 
> 
> Thank you all for being patient with me. I hope you enjoy the chapter!

_ Gendry | Meereen _

  
  


“So,” Davos prompted after Sam finished his questions, “is she a Stark?”  The older man leaned forward in his seat, his eyes shining brightly. 

Gendry watched and listened with blurry eyes and buzzing ears.  He felt numb, as if his mind had disconnected with his body. Cat  _ was _ Arya.  Arya was  _ alive _ .  He couldn’t believe it.  She was alive, his mind repeated.  Alive, alive alive. And yet . . . sharply, like he’d been struck with lightning, Gendry’s surroundings turned crystal clear, and everything around him became much louder.  

Arya sat there across the room, completely unaware of who she truly was.  Before, when they’d first started this adventure, Gendry hadn’t believed they could pull this off.  Prince Jon would see through their scheme and turn them away. But now it was real. They had to see Jon--had to get him to see Arya.  She needed to see him. She needed to remember.

“She did answer all of my questions,”  Sam said, a bit awkwardly. His lips were pursed and his brows knitted together.  He kept his eyes trained on the teacup in his hands.  Gendry frowned, his eyes flickering away from Arya just long enough to determine that something wasn’t right.

“Right.  So when do we see Jon?”  Davos, clearly not paying attention to the man across from him, leaned in to pat Arya on her shoulder.  “Is he here? Or shall we--”

“I’m afraid,” Sam took in a deep breath, “that you don’t.” Davis blinked, his face frozen with uncomprehending shock. “See Jon, that is.”

“Why not?”  Gendry asked, stepping forward.  His chest tightened painfully. They were so close-- _ so close _ . Forgetting all about their scheme and the money, Gendry stared at Arya. She was Arya. She needed to see Jon. Jon needed to see her. Arya had answered all his questions correctly, which was all that was needed before. Gendry wondered what changed.

Sam stood and went about clearing up all their tea cups and small plates of food.  “Jon has changed his mind. He will see no more Aryas. He won’t allow you to visit him.”

Gendry’s skin felt too hot.  His hands burned and no matter how deeply he inhaled, no air entered his lungs.  No, this couldn’t be happening. Not after they’d come all this way. Not after he’d actually found her.  

“Sam,” Davos stood up, his arms crossing over his chest and his face looking severe.  “Samwell Tarly stop fussing and look at me.” Sam, looking like a child who’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have by his mother, finally stilled in his movements.  “You know who I am. I am not some beggar come in off the streets. I am Davos Seaworth. Hand of the late King Stannis Baratheon. I would not tarnish my king’s good name by deceiving you now.  This girl here,” he pointed to Arya, who’d been watching all this with hard, gray eyes, and an emotionless face, “is Arya Stark and I am not leaving here until you think of a way to change Jon’s mind.”

Davos’s words had done their job.  Sam’s lip stopped its quivering and he nodded.  “Right. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--that is, I remember quite well who it was that smuggled Jon and me out of the North.  If you say this is Arya,” he looked at the girl in question, “then I believe you.”

Arya stood up, her gray eyes wary.  Gods, her eyes. Gendry wanted to kick himself.  How could he have--how did he not--they were her eyes.  He’d been a fool to not see what had been right in front of him.  

Sam snapped his fingers, “The Gold Graces!”  Gendry’s brows furrowed. The Graces were priestesses.  How could they help? “The Gold Graces entertain the city.  They’re to perform a series of songs tomorrow evening.” The ex-member of the Night’s Watch took in their still blank stares.  “The Graces themselves only sing once a year. It’s a very important event for Meereen. Queen Daenerys loves the Gold Graces. She and Jon never miss a performance.”

Gendry looked at Arya. This was it. Just one more night. Tomorrow, Arya would return to her family. Something inside him turned cold. Tomorrow Arya would reunite with her brother, and Gendry would walk away.

  
  


_ Cat | Meereen  _

  
  


Back at the inn, Cat couldn't sleep. She laid in her straw bed staring up at the ceiling, wishing for the sun to rise. It'd only just set a few hours ago, though, and wouldn't come back around again for many hours more. She'd thought she was done with the waiting. She'd answered the fat man's questions. Gotten them right, too. Except for the last one. Cat still wasn't sure what had gotten into her. Giant birds and steel that sang. It sounded like something from a song.

Everything sounded like something from a song. Again and again she found herself asking,  _ why did I decide to do this? _ It was like torture, the waiting. First the wait to cross the Narrow Sea, then the wait to meet Sam, and now she had to wait  _ again _ . A part of her just wanted it to be over.

Across the room, Gendry sighed. The room was too dark for Cat to see him, but she could hear his blanket rustle as he threw it off his body. His bare feet smacked against the wooden floor boards as he walked towards the door. He sighed again, and Cat could just barely make out the quiet scratching noise as he ran his fingers through his hair.

A small sliver of light bled into the room when Gendry opened the door. The candle out in the hall just barely bright enough to guide patrons ways down to the privy.  

Cat wondered what Gendry was thinking.  He’d been acting strangely since their meeting with Sam.  Several times tonight she’d caught him staring at her strangely. She wasn't sure how to describe it. He looked at her like he'd met the god of death and lived. 

Knowing her thoughts would only decline further, Cat decided to follow Gendry's lead. The inn had a small yard in the back. There were candles atop tall, skinny wooden poles, casting light around the yard. The innkeeper must have set them up to allow guests to visit during the night, even though the only person currently visiting it was herself.

The yard was simple, but beautiful. The ground was covered bricks, varying in a multitude of pinks, yellows, and  greens. Small, round tables and backless chairs were placed around its edges, closer to the privacy wall. And in the very center was an ornate fountain. The trickle from its single spout eased the tension in Cat's shoulders.

Sitting on the wide ledge of the fountain, Arya looked at her reflection in the rippling water. Gray eyes stared back at her. The eyes of a Stark, or so many had said.

“Ar--Cat. What are you doing out here?” Gendry frowned at the sight of her as he stood in the doorway to the inn.

Cat shrugged, “I couldn't sleep.”

Gendry hesitated, looking back behind him quickly before coming to sit beside her on the fountain. “What's wrong?”

Cat suppressed a frown. She wasn't sure when Gendry had learned to read her so well. She wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not. Glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, she tried to think of what to say.

“Tell me about Arya again.” The words tumbled from her mouth. “Something you haven't told anyone before.”

Gendry opened his mouth, and then sucked in a sharp breath. He looked like a fish pulled from its watery home. Mouth still open, his blue eyes flitted this way and that across the yard. Cat wondered if he was trying to think of a story he hadn't yet told, or if he was trying to dodge her question.

“Before I do,” he said, “I'd like you to tell me something.” Cat's lips thinned with confusion, but she nodded for him to continue. “What all do you remember about your time in Braavos?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” exhaling air harshly through his nostrils, Gendry rubbed the back of his neck, “What's the first thing you remember? About your past?”

Cat froze. He'd never asked questions about her past before. Why was he asking now?

“I don't know,” she said slowly. Her heart beat hard and fast against her chest. She wondered what his reaction would be  if he found out about her time in the House of Black and White. Would he be disgusted that she'd trained to be an assassin? Would he be afraid? “Why do you ask?”

Gendry licked his lips. “I guess I was just wondering how . . .” He paused and looked down at his hands. They'd balled into fists. “How you lost your memory,” he said quietly. “I was just . . .”

Cat's heart calmed. Her spine, which had gone ramrod straight, relaxed as she realized he was just curious about her.

“I don't know how it happened,” she told him while dipping the tips of her fingers into the fountain's pool. The cold water felt soothing on her too hot skin. “There was a girl.” Waif, that's what she had been called. She'd been a fellow acolyte of Cat's. “And a man.” The Kindly Man, with his face in the shadows of his hooded cloak. “They were standing over me when I woke up. I don't remember anything before that.”

“Did they--do you think they--” Gendry's face grew red as he tried to hold onto his anger and think of what to say.

“They didn't hurt me,” Cat told him. She hadn't been injured when she'd awoken, only confused. “But . . .”

“But?” Gendry repeated, his blue eyes swimming with concern.

The Faceless Men did not believe in possessions, or in the idea of self. Most acolytes gladly gave up their identities before joining the guild, but there were others who had a harder time shedding their past. For some of the tougher cases, a tea was brewed to help them forget. Cat didn't remember drinking any such tea, and considering her ever present need to rediscover who she truly was, she doubted she'd ever taken any in the past.

She'd gone down this road before. Perhaps it had been the Waif who'd taken her memory, or the Kindly Man himself. Maybe one day she'd know for sure, although she wasn't sure what she'd do with that knowledge.

Cat shook her head, “Nevermind. It's your turn now. Tell me about Arya.”

Gendry ducked his head to hide his smile, causing Cat's heart to turn as light and fluttery as a butterfly's wing.

“What do you want to know?”

  
  
  


_ Gendry | Meereen _

  
  


Gendry rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn't sure how long the two of them had been outside, but it had been a while. If the sun began its rise over the horizon, he wouldn't have been surprised to see it.

“I'm not sure I have any more stories.” That wasn't true. He'd told her about their time in Harrenhal, where a man named The Tickler almost tortured him with rats; how she had become the cupbearer for Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton. He told her about Jaqen H'gar and the debt the assassin had owed her; how they escaped Harrenhal only to be found out by the Brotherhood without Banners.

He didn't tell her about The Hound, or his decision to stay with the Brotherhood even after she'd offered him a place at her side. He couldn't, not yet. Realizing that Arya was still alive--alive and in front of him--unraveled a tightly wound knot from within his chest. But the guilt of his decision still ate away at him, and while Arya may not remember his betrayal, he just couldn't bring himself to relive that terrible moment.

“What about the Gold Cloaks?” Arya asked, her gray eyes still as bright and as curious as when they had first started down this road of memories. “You mentioned them, earlier. When you and Arya were still heading North.” She bit her lip, her eyes narrowing in thought. “How did you escape them?”

“We didn't. They took us to Harrenhal.”

“No, I mean, how did you keep the Gold Cloaks from killing you?”

A sigh escaped Gendry's lips. The memory of that night had haunted him for a long time. The skirmish had been brief, and if they had wanted to, the Gold Cloaks could've cut them all down then and there. If it hadn't been for Yoren's bravery and Arya's cunning, he'd be long dead.

“It was you,” he muttered, then quickly realized his mistake. “I--I mean it was Arya.” He shook his head in an attempt to straighten his thoughts. “I’d had this helmet at the time. In the shape of a bull. I'd made it myself and was proud of it--too proud, really. The Gold Cloaks knew to identify me by it.”

He remember the bolt off absolutely terror that struck down his spine the first time the Gold Cloaks came and asked for him by name. It had been like he'd fallen into a sea of nausea and surety.   _ “We’re looking for a boy named Gendry!  He carries a bulls-head helmet! Anyone turning him over will earn the King’s reward!” _

“But then the Gold Cloaks came back in the night, and still Yoren wouldn't give me up. He died to keep me safe.” Gendry could barely remember the man's face. He could still remember the voice though. Raspy and hard from bellowing orders and curses. “Sorry sons of whores,” Gendry laughed. “That's what he called us.”

Arya's brows were furrowed and her eyes glazed over. She looked too deep in her thoughts to be listening, but Gendry continued, “After the battle,” he shook his head. It couldn't even be called that. A skirmish, perhaps. “After it ended, and Yoren was dead, the knights asked for me again. All anyone had to do was point at me and that'd be it.”

Gendry had been lucky. Had he made more friends, had he not kept to himself and shared his name more willingly, Arya's trick wouldn't have worked.

“But then yo--Arya stepped forward, and pointed to a dead boy on the ground, saying he was Gendry.” A broken chuckle escaped his lips, “I don't know how, but he had my helmet, and that was all the Gold Cloaks needed to see.”

At first he didn't think Arya would respond. Her eyes were still unfocused and her face still closed up like a shutter. He was just about to suggest they return to their beds when she said, “You make me feel like I was there, too.”

“Maybe you were.” An idea hit Gendry. Before it was fully formed he suggested, “Make it part of your story. How would you tell it?”

The hint of a smile pulled on her lips and a small gleam lit up behind her eyes.

  
  


_ Cat | Meereen _

  
  
It sounded like a game; one of make believe. Cat used to do something similar, back in the House of Black and White when she took on someone else's face. She'd try to put herself in their shoes, create stories for them so she felt more in tune with the character.

Cat was surprised when she didn't feel repulsed by the suggestion. Perhaps if it had come from someone other than Gendry she would have, but instead she only felt a faint amusement at the idea. Surprise, too. Last they had spoken about the real Arya, Gendry had been adamant that she was dead. Now, though, he seemed to be actually entertaining the idea that Cat might be the princess after all.

It was a strange turn around, but Cat merely brushed it off as a side effect of being in Meereen, of having met Samwell Tarly.

As for herself, Cat knew there was a chance she was truly Arya. A small chance, but still. She didn't feel like a princess, and a small, hidden part of herself shied away from the title, but another part, a feral part, held onto the name Stark and howled.

Deciding to humor Gendry and that feral side of herself, she played his game, “They came at midday, first. We'd been on the King's Road, only a week or so away from King's Landing.”

Eyes drifting up towards the left, Cat sighed.  The image was an easy one for her mind to paint, having just spent the better part of a fortnight on the King's Road.  A well worn dirt path surrounded on both sides by tall, skinny trees. Carts filled with supplies. Men and children alike unloading them.  Everyone milling about, performing some job or another in preparation of the night.

“We were asleep, when they came the second time.  You were sleeping with your helmet cradled in your arms like some newborn babe.”  Gendry scowled at her, but didn’t interrupt. The way his lips tightened into a pout made Cat’s smile grow and drew a laugh from her.  “I was . . . near Yoren,” Gendry nodded encouragingly.

Yoren, the man who’d saved both Arya and Gendry from terrible fates.  Gendry may not remember his face, but one came easily enough to Cat’s mind.  He’d be a man of many wrinkles, with large, sad eyes, and dark hair like most Northerners.  She could even picture a bit of gray sprinkled in his short beard. 

His voice came next, “ _ Willem, Willem, Willem . . . a prayer almost . . .”  _  Cat blinked at the words.  They made no sense, and yet . . . _ “I buried an axe so deep into Willem’s skull they had to bury him with it.” _

Cat shook her head, thinking, _ I must be more tired than I thought _ .  “When the Gold Cloaks came, he told us to hide.”  To run, too, probably. “Then they killed him.” Cat’s brows furrowed.  Her tongue felt heavy, like something was sitting right on the tip of it.  

Fire burning through hay.  Gold armor glinting in the moonlight.  Horses neighing and men muttering. An arrow notched, but not quickly enough.  A hand holding her back. Fire burning brighter. A man, with red hair and a white streak, trying to get her attention--iron bars criss-crossing over his face. An axe, a sword.

“After the fight, they rounded us up.  There was a boy--a boy who took your helmet before the fight.  He’d been injured.”

_ “Something wrong with your leg, boy?” _

_ “You gotta carry me.” _

Meereen, the fountain, Gendry--it all faded away.  Instead, Cat found herself in the middle of a dark forest, smoke and flames turning her vision blurry.  A man with a mummer’s smile stood before her, looking down gleefully at a dead body. A young boy with a small hole in his neck and an arrow in his leg.  At her side stood another boy, older than her, perhaps, but still just a boy. Someone like her, with a target on his back and no one to protect him. No one but her.    

_ “We’re looking for a bastard named Gendry.  Give him up, or I’ll start taking eyeballs.”   _

“They killed him.”  Cat’s eyes focused back on Gendry.  “And I said he was you, but he wasn’t . . . his name was Lommy.”

Gendry froze, his eyes widened, “I didn’t tell you that.”

“You didn’t have to,” her eyes stung with unshed tears, her voice quieter than a whisper.  “I remembered.”

  
  


_ Cersei | Slaver's Bay _

 

Sitting at her desk, one hand around the stench of her wine glass, and the other rubbing her temple, Cersei mulled over her current environment. It was like limbo, this room of hers.  A room on a ship, not a house or a permanent home, sailing on a body of ever changing water. Not in one country or another. Neither this nor that.

A sharp pang in her head made the Queen hiss and take a long gulp of wine. This migraine of hers had only intensified since sailing beyond the Narrow Sea. It felt as though a Septa had taken a sewing needle and stabbed it through her skull.

“More wine,” she ordered, her voice barely more than a moan. The sound of liquid splashing into her goblet met her ears.  _ Thank the Seven for Qyburn, _ she thought, as she looked up to see him doing the pouring.

“Shall I fetch you something, your Grace? Perhaps some milk of the poppy?”

She waved away his suggestion.  They'd be arriving in Meereen soon and she'd need her wits about her.  “Jaime,” she bit out, her teeth aching in her head. It was as if they were trying to vibrate their way out of her gums.  “I need Jaime.”

“Right away, your Grace.”

Massaging her temples didn’t help, and neither did the wine.  Cersei felt she could weep, but no tears would come. Part of her wanted to call Qyburn back and demand he give her the mind numbing drug, but she couldn’t find the energy to do so.  

She couldn’t wait to return to Westeros, to King’s Landing, to her own bed.  They'd been on this ship for weeks now, and the longer they sailed the longer the days seemed to last.  Once she saw this through, then perhaps this nightmare she’d been living would finally come to an end.

“Cersei?” Jaime’s voice crashed through her mind like one thousand hammers striking one thousand anvils. “Gods, you look like shit.”

Cersei bared her teeth at him.  True, her wig had been discarded long ago, and she was still dressed in nothing but her robe, with her face turned red from the pain, but he didn’t have to  _ say _ it.  Rutting bastard.

“I’ll be beautiful again once the Stark girl is dead.” Once the curse was broken and the world set to rights.  “I’ll be the most beautiful woman in all the seven kingdoms.”

The warm weight of Jaime’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder.  “Cersei you need to rest.” Green eyes, so familiar and so comforting, looked at her with utter pity and concern.  “You look like . . .”

“Like what?  Like what!” Running her hands through the short scraps of hair still left on her skull, “Like I’m falling apart?”  The air caught in her throat as she spoke the words. Her chest trembled and she couldn’t catch her breath. The walls of her cabin shrank in on her, the wooden walls suddenly felt like a coffin.  Her words barely more than a whisper, she said, “I am falling apart.” She stumbled over to her bed, one bad step away from collapsing. “I’m a wreck.”

It was the curse.  The Stark curse. The girl's death was the only thing that’d end her misery.  The girl had to die, she just  _ had _ to, she’d break the curse--

“What curse?”  Jaime’s face was right next to hers, his breath intermingled with her own.  Cersei could feel its warmth on her face. Once, not so terribly long ago, the proximity would have brought the queen comfort, but now, with his pestering questions and his too similar eyes, it just made her sick.

“Cersei,” Jaime cupped her face with his one good hand.  “What are you talking about?”

Distantly, she realized she must’ve been speaking without realizing it again, but she didn’t care, because there was another, louder voice, shouting in the distance.

 

“Land ho!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so. I am trying to finish my book by the end of this month, so unfortunately that means this fics gonna be put on the back burner until February BUT! I hope to get at least two chapters updated in February and then we'll go from there.
> 
> Again, thanks for being patient while I did NaNoWriMo and through this month. School started back up and my schedule changed so they delayed some things but we finished it!!! 
> 
> Please leave a comment below and tell me what you thought of Cat's revelation :)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hi there! Okay, so that rewriting of the song was just me being a nerd. I tried to make everything fit with the tune and stuff and I think I did a pretty good job so la di da. 
> 
> Um...yes, all the Stark's are dead except for Arya (it's like there's a curse or something)
> 
> Updates will not be too regular unfortunately. I'm already 3000 words into the next chapter, but then it has to go through edits and my friend who helps me edit these things is in a very different time zone so that can slow it down some. 
> 
> I'm going to be taking things from ASOIAF, GOT, Anastasia (1997) and Anastasia the musical. So it'll be a hodgepodge but hopefully a good one. 
> 
> If you liked this chapter please let me know by leaving a comment! See you all next time!


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